CLAIR  DE  LUNE 


BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR 

JENNY  ESSENDEN 

MARQUERAY'S  DUEL 

NIGHTFALL 

AN  ORDEAL  OF  HONOUR 

In  collaboration  with 
R,  K.  WEEKES 

THE  PURPLE  PEARL 


SHE  SLIPPED  ACROSS  THE  ROOM  LIKE  A  GHOST,  THE  CHINESE  COAT  HALF 
OPEN  OVER  THE  SAXON  FAIRNESS  OF  HER  SHOULDERS.  HER 
INSTINCT  WAS  TO  TAKE  HIM  IN  HER  ARMS. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE 


BY 

ANTHONY   PRYDE 

AUTHOR  or  "MARQUERAY'S  DUEL,"    " NIGHTFALL, "  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYBIGHT,  1922, 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN    THE    U.   S.  A.  BY 

gftt  «ett<""  *  W>m  C**9«* 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 


To  HELEN 

In  memory  of  the  memories  that  we  share — 
Wide  sunny  rooms;  the  cuckoo's  April  call; 
The  silver  Darenth  rippling  through  its  fair 
Enamelled  meads;  the  scent  of  flowers  that  fall. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE 


CHAPTER  I 

WAS  Mr.  Evelyn  at  home?  No,  Mr.  Efelyn  was 
not  at  home.  Was  he  likely  to  be  in  before 
long?  It  was  impossible  to  say.  Was  he 
often  late?  He  was  occasionally  a  little  late.  Where 
had  he  gone?  Mr.  Efelyn  was  playing  at  the  Queen's 
Hall :  had  not  Mr.  Dent  seen  the  posters?  it  had  been 
verra  extensifely  advertised;  carriages  were  ordered 
for  ten  minutes  to  elefen,  but,  as  Mr.  Dent  would  be 
aware,  Mr  Efelyn  was  often  obliged  to  give  a  great 
many  Encores.  And  would  probably  go  on  some- 
where to  supper  afterwards?  Mr.  Dent  would  surely 
remember  that  Mr  Efelyn  nefer  took  supper  after  an 
efening  concert.  .  .  .  "Oh!  well,  I'll  wait  for  him," 
said  George  Dent,  a  trifle  impatient  under  Eraser's 
coldly  Highland  grey  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  always 
thanking  heaven  that  he  was  not  ignorant  as  Low- 
landers  are  or  even  as  this  Southron;  and  dropping 
into  an  armchair  Dent  ended  the  interview  by  picking 
up  a  newspaper  ,which  however  he  hastily  threw  down 
again  as  soon  as  Eraser's  back  was  turned — the  Mu- 
sical Times  was  not  what  he  preferred  to  read. 

Dent  was  thickset  and  sandy-coloured,  keeping 
room  for  temperate  judgments  behind  a  broad  fore- 
head, while  his  shrewd  glance  examined  the  world 


2  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

and  the  men  and  women  in  it  with  the  cool  slow 
humour  of  the  Cambridgeshire  fens.  Only  the  long 
upperlip  and  slightly  undershot  chin  bespoke  a  few 
obstinate  prepossessions  and  reserves,  and  perhaps, 
behind  all  else,  a  hard  fighting  temper,  born  of  the 
drop  or  two  of  Norse  blood  that  in  an  Eastern  county 
not  infrequently  crosses  the  milder  Saxon  strain.  He 
had  had  a  long  day  and  a  longer  night  before  it,  the 
racket  of  London  tired  him,  and  as  a  rule  he  went  to 
bed  at  ten,  but  he  had  come  to  Hever  Street  to  find 
Charles  Evelyn,  and  he  meant  to  do  it  before  going 
back  to  his  hotel  if  he  had  to  wait  all  night. 

In  the  meanwhile  he  lit  a  pipe  and  examined  Eve- 
lyn's room,  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  which 
struck  him,  in  the  given  order  of  impressions,  as  very 
pretty,  rather  spendthrift,  not  a  bit  his  style,  and — 
last  of  all,  and  with  a  faint  uprising  of  discomfort — 
too  much  like  a  woman's  drawingroom  and  the  wrong 
sort  of  woman  at  that !  There  was  nothing  effeminate 
about  the  chair  he  was  sitting  in,  a  man's  chair,  deep 
and  shabby — and  with  shoulders  well  squared  against 
its  leather  cushions  he  settled  himself  lower  in  it  and 
stretched  out  his  long  legs  in  the  luxury  of  an  in- 
dulged yawn;  the  fire  too  was  a  man's  fire,  stacked 
high  with  a  mixture  of  coal  and  logs,  firtree  bavins 
apparently  to  judge  by  their  blue  twinkling  flames 
and  resinous  odour:  roaring  away  on  a  wide  and  flat 
brick  hearth,  the  glorious  heat  of  them  struck  right 
across  to  the  door.  Nor  had  he  any  fault  to  find  with 
the  polished  floor  and  Persian  rugs,  or  the  wide  airy 
walls  washed  over  with  chrome-coloured  distemper. 
Even  the  grand  piano  might  pass,  and  the  violin  flung 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  3 

on  top  of  it,  and  the  case  of  clarinets,  the  harp,  the 
litter  of  music  printed  and  in  manuscript :  it  was  an 
extraordinary  thing  that  a  man  who  might  have  been 
a  country  gentleman  like  his  fathers  before  him  should 
take  up  with  the  career  of  a  professional  musician, 
but  after  all  Evelyn  was — had  been — only  a  younger 
son,  and  at  all  events,  so  long  as  he  worked  at  his 
job,  it  kept  him  out  of  mischief.  But  the  pictures ! 

Dent  had  pictures  at  home,  a  collection  of  signed 
engravings  and  proofs  before  letters  which  when  the 
harvest  was  bad  he  occasionally  threatened  to  sell, 
though  he  would  as  soon  have  sold  his  right  hand — 
for  they  belonged  to  the  house,  and  the  house  was  part 
of  himself.  But  those  were  scenes  worth  looking  at — 
"The  Lawn,"  "The  Covert  Side,"  "First  Check,"  and 
so  on,  "Harry  Hieover  on  'Tilter,' "  Wilkie's  "Penny 
Wedding,"  Richard  Herring's  "Black  Rabbit",  an  epi- 
tome of  farm  and  sporting  life,  every  stroke  distinct 
in  pale  blue  and  green  and  scarlet,  or  dimness  of 
sepia  shadow.  The  works  that  Evelyn  hung  on  his 
walls — one  and  no  more  to  each  wall — were  neither 
dim  nor  distinct:  bizarre  combinations  of  coloured 
angles,  which  looked  to  Dent  like  the  dreams  of  a 
house-painter  gone  mad.  He  couldn't  make  out  the 
subjects,  and  after  scrutinising  them  for  some  time 
from  a  distance  with  his  light  eyes,  wrinkled  at  the 
corners  by  much  gazing  across  field  and  fallow  under 
a  bronzing  sun,  he  was  not  sorry  for  it :  for  the  least 
confusing  of  the  five  threatened  to  resolve  into  one 
of  those  pink  and  white  caf6  studies  which,  in  Dent's 
private  opinion,  decent  people  neither  paint  nor  pur- 
chase. 


4  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

And  it  wasn't  the  pictures  only,  but  the  curtains 
and  cushions,  the  metal  work  and  lacquer  and  china : 
the  room  was  like  a  curio-shop,  for  every  table  (and 
there  were  too  many  tables)  was  strewn  with  objects 
of  value:  to  inherit  them  was  well  enough  (Dent  had 
inherited  not  a  few  of  his  own),  but  as  for  taking 
the  trouble  to  collect  them — !  And  in  any  case  they 
should  be  set  out  with  discrimination  and  reserve. 
Dent  did  not  mentally  use  the  phrase  "economy  of 
effect"  when  he  found  an  ivory-hilted  Persian  sword 
niched  into  the  spout  of  a  bronze  Pyrenean  regalada, 
but  this  was  the  instinct  that  prompted  him  to  dis- 
content. And  then  the  photographs !  men  and  women 
of  every  class  and  age,  standing  about  framed  or  un- 
f ramed  here  there  and  everywhere :  and  signed,  many 
of  them,  with  names  well  known  in  more  than  one 
London  world.  .  .  .  Apparently  Charles  Evelyn  was 
liked  by  people  of  all  sorts,  but  especially  by  women — 
and  such  pretty  women  too ! 

And  Evelyn's  own  portrait  amid  the  debris :  how  like 
him  to  possess  his  own  portrait !  Dent  got  up  out  of 
his  chair  to  examine  it.  He  had  not  seen  the  original 
for  a  twelvemonth,  and  was  anxious  to  learn  whether 
the  racket  of  this  London  life  had  altered  him.  A 
painting,  but  of  a  different  school  from  those  that 
graced  the  walls,  it  stood  propped  up  unframed  on  a 
French  cabinet,  between  a  plaster  cast  of  a  woman's 
head  which  Dent  thought  the  most  hideously  death- 
like object  he  had  ever  seen,  and  an  ivory  fan  through 
whose  sticks  some  one  had  twisted  a  couple  of  half 
fresh,  half  fading  pink  rosebuds.  Dent  carried  the 
likeness  to  the  lamp  and  studied  it  attentively.  Come, 
there  was  no  want  of  economy  here  at  all  events! 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  5 

the  head  and  throat  only,  in  oils,  and  isolated  by  some 
craftsman's  trick  on  a  background  of  indigo  blue: 
and  smiling  Dent  owned  to  himself  that  Evelyn  had 
not  altered  after  all,  it  was  the  same  Evelyn  as  he  had 
known  all  his  life,  rather  melancholy  and  delicate 
and  inaccessible,  with  the  haunting  grey  eyes  under 
the  waved  cedar-brown  hair,  and  the  musician's 
pointed  chin.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  and  wait  till  Charles  turns  up,  shall  we?" 

".  .  .  your  cloak,  Sophy?" 

Dent  laid  down  the  portrait  as  the  confused  mur- 
mur of  voices  preluded  the  entrance  of  these  other 
friends  of  Charles  Evelyn :  a  big  fair  man,  exquisitely 
dressed,  Mayfair  from  head  to  heel,  accompanied  by  a 
tall  girl  in  black  and  white  flounces  and  a  gold-em- 
broidered coat.  "Meredith!"  Dent  exclaimed.  He 
had  known  Meredith  years  ago  at  the  university 
in  what  seemed  like  a  different  life,  and  his  first  idea 
was  that  "Sophy"  was  either  Mrs.  or  Miss  Meredith, 
but  he  altered  his  mind  when  her  escort,  with  a  vague 
provisional  smile  for  the  unexpected  meeting,  put 
her  into  a  chair  by  the  fire  without  the  offer  of  an  in- 
troduction. Brother  and  sister  they  certainly  were 
not:  nor  husband  and  wife,  for  she  wore  no  ring. 
Dent  then,  though  unwillingly,  entered  her  in  a  dif- 
ferent pigeon-hole.  In  Cambridgeshire,  in  the  society 
to  which  he  was  accustomed,  girls  did  not  visit  men 
of  Evelyn's  years  in  their  own  rooms  at  any  time,  and 
least  of  all  after  ten  o'clock  at  night.  Yet  there  was 
a  want  of  sentiment  in  the  atmosphere  which  seemed 
to  rule  Meredith  out  of  the  field. 

"Dent — is  it  Dent?  what  ages  since  I've  seen  you! 
'Are  you  waiting  for  Evelyn?  He'll  be  in  directly; 


6  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

I  got  sick  of  hanging  about  Queen's  Hall  in  the  rain 
and  came  on  in  a  taxi.  How  long  are  you  in  town 
for?" 

"The  night.  I'm  only  here  on  business.  You're 
living  in  London,  ain't  you?" 

"Well,  I  have  a  flat  in  Mount  Street,  which  I  inhabit 
for  three  months  out  of  the  twelve.  But  I'm  an  out- 
rageous globe-trotter.  I  cut  the  Diplomatic  because  it 
was  such  a  bore  to  be  tied.  What  are  you  doing? 
the  last  I  heard,  you  were  farming  your  ancestral 
acres  somewhere  in  the  Midlands." 

"So  I  am  still,"  said  Dent  drily.  "Near  Temple 
Evelyn.  Eve  and  I  are  country  neighbours,  as  you 
may  remember,  which  is  why  I've  kept  up  with  him. 
We  don't  as  a  rule  see  anything  of  each  other  except 
when  he's  at  home.  Working  farmers  like  me  don't 
get  many  holidays."  He  was  aware  of  a  tinge  of  the 
unduly  defiant  in  his  manner,  but  Meredith  always 
had  irritated  him  and  always  would  do  so,  with  his 
faultless  clothes  and  faultless  voice  and  the  little 
studied  air  of  self-depreciation  which  seemed  to  say 
"Do  let  me  set  you  at  your  ease."  Still  Dent  was 
thoroughly  goodhumoured,  and,  since  he  really  was 
quite  at  his  ease,  his  spurt  of  irritation  ended  in  a 
slow  apologetic  laugh.  "Very  jolly  to  see  you  again, 
Edmund,"  it  had  been  Edmund  and  George  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  Dent,  suddenly  feeling  warm  towards 
the  companion  of  his  lost  youth,  went  back  to  the 
old  terms  without  much  caring  whether  Meredith 
were  pleased  or  no.  "You  look  as  though  the  world 
had  been  treating  you  pretty  well.  But  then  you  al- 
ways did,  so  that's  nothing  new." 

"And  Miss  Dent,  how  is  she?" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  7 

"My  sister?  Oh  ah !  I  remember,  you  met  her  in 
town.  Very  fit,  thanks.  Very  busy  just  at  present 
with  an  ailing  Alderney  calf.  She  runs  the  dairy 
and  the  poultry  yard." 

"And  she's  not  engaged  yet?"  Dent's  eyes  widened 
in  surprise.  "A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  fellow, 
but  there  were  moths  enough  round  the  candle !" 

"I  dare  say — I  don't  pretend  to  keep  count  of  Kitty's 
dancing  partners,"  Dent  answered  placidly.  How 
little  change  fifteen  years  make  in  a  man's  manner! 
The  shade  of  impertinence  was  as  characteristic  of 
the  Meredith  he  remembered  as  the  shade  of  affec- 
tation put  on  to  cover  it.  "By  the  by,  how  soon  do 
you  expect  Evelyn?  The  fact  is — " 

Dent's  explanation,  which  would  have  explained 
nothing,  was  lost  as  the  door  opened  again  and  the 
room  was  flooded  with  fresh  visitors  all  talking  at 
once.  A  middle-aged  plump  man  badly  dressed  in 
light  brown  tweeds  and  a  flannel  shirt ;  an  extremely 
handsome  youth  in  evening  clothes,  as  dark-haired  and 
olive-skinned  as  an  Italian;  and  a  third  who  might 
have  been  any  age,  brown  as  a  gipsy,  thin  as  a  lath, 
and  frankly  disreputable  in  a  wet  macintosh  worn  over 
a  Leander  blazer :  Dent  backed  away  from  all  of  them, 
rather  liking  their  looks,  but  apprehensive  of  a  life 
so  unlike  his  own.  So  these  were  Evelyn's  London 
friends,  were  they?  They  might  have  been  worse 
— yes,  in  view  of  the  Futurist  paintings  they  might 
have  been  very  much  worse!  Yet  they  made  Dent 
feel  shy  because  they  all  knew  one  another  so  well  and 
were  so  far  more  at  home  in  Hever  Street  than  he 
would  ever  be.  But  the  wave  poured  in,  it  closed  over 


8  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

Meredith  and  his  companion  and  over  Dent  as  well: 
Meredith  was  not  expansive,  but  the  others  were  in- 
capable of  leaving  a  stranger  in  the  cold. 

"That  you,  Meredith?  ...  I  say,  Sophy,  what  an 
auriferous  coat!  .  .  .  Good  show  wasn't  it?"  Then 
discovering  Dent  in  his  corner,  "Are  you  waiting  for 
Eve?  Do  come  over  to  the  fire,"  the  elder  man  made 
him  hospitably  welcome  while  the  Leander  blazer 
pulled  up  a  chair  and  patted  the  seat  of  it  as  if  Dent 
had  been  a  timid  dog.  "He  won't  be  long  now.  We 
often  drop  in  to  cheer  him  up  after  a  Queen's  Hall 
night,  he  gets  the  blues  if  he's  left  to  recover  from  it 
by  himself."  Dent  said  "Thanks  very  much,  sir," 
feeling  stiff  and  shy  and  yet  attracted,  and  the  Leander 
blazer,  who  had  taken  off  his  macintosh  and  was  sit- 
ting cross-legged  on  the  rug,  looked  up  with  a  lazy 
twinkle  in  his  brown  eyes. 

"What'll  you  have  to  drink?  We're  all  having  cof- 
fee. You  will  too?  That's  so  harmonious.  Selwyn, 
my  son,  you're  young  and  active  in  the  legs,  cut  down- 
stairs and  tell  Eraser  coffee  for  six." 

"You  can't  go  ordering  Eraser  about  like  that,"  said 
Meredith  angrily,  "on  my  word,  Wright,  you  seem  to 
forget  that  this  is  Evelyn's  flat!" 

"Selwyn !" 

"Y-yes?"  from  the  stairs. 

"Five  coffees,  one  gin  and  bitters." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!  Do  you  hear,  Selwyn?  I 
won't  have  anything  at  all.  I  must  say,  if  anyone 
did  that  in  my  house — " 

"Cheer  up.  No  one  would  do  it  in  your  house. 
Amateurs  are  safe.  But  Eve  is  a  freeman  of  the 
Republic  of  Art,  to  which  in  my  humble  way  I  also 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  9 

belong — the  beautiful  communion  of  one  faith, 
one  hope,  one  toothbrush — anathema  in  all  ages 
to  you  of  the  unthinking  bourgeoisie — " 

Dent  perceived  that  Meredith  was  making  himself 
ridiculous :  perceived  too  that  the  Leander  blazer  had 
salted  his  chaff  with  truth.  Meredith  was  distin- 
guished from  the  other  men,  even  young  Selwyn  in 
his  slim  black  and  white,  by  the  want  of  some  quality 
they  had  in  common :  what  was  it?  perhaps  a  common 
outlook,  the  direct  simplicity  of  men  who  keep  in  their 
pockets  a  private  standard  of  values.  And  observant 
and  reflective,  though  enveloped  in  good  will,  Dent 
sat  and  listened  to  their  conversation,  from  which 
an  impression  of  Evelyn  gradually  disengaged  itself, 
familiar  though  elusive. 

"Shut  up,  you  two,  you're  always  sparring,"  came 
the  goodhumoured  voice  of  the  elder  man.  "You 
might  shift  over  a  bit,  Wright,  and  let  the  rest  of  us 
see  the  fire.  Rotten  weather  I  call  it  for  the  begin- 
ning of  September!  But  wasn't  the  Hall  packed? 
Bless  'em,  they'd  come  to  hear  old  Eve  play  if  it 
rained  cats  and  dogs.  Paris,  Rome,  Munich,  Zurich 
— there's  not  one  of  'em  all  so  reliable  as  good  old 
London.  We  don't  know  much  about  music,  but  our 
heart's  in  the  right  place." 

"Were  you  looking  at  Eve's  portrait?"  this  was 
young  Selwyn  returning,  a  little  out  of  breath.  He 
came  up  with  his  engaging  smile  and  stammer  and 
took  it  out  of  Dent's  hand.  "L-like  him  isn't  it?  How 
long  is  it  since  you've  seen  him?  Oh,  a  t-twelvemonth ! 
But  Eve  never  alters.  Oh!"  in  a  voice  suddenly 
raised  and  shrill  with  indignation,  "good  God  don't 
put  your  nose  in  it!  It  isn't  meant  to  be  s-smelt!" 


10  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Am  I  looking  at  it  too  close?  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  Art,"  Dent  said  humbly.  He  looked 
round  at  the  black  and  gold  cloak  with  some  vague 
idea  of  drawing  her  into  the  conversation,  but  in- 
stantly felt  his  mistake,  just  as  he  had  felt  the  ab- 
surdity of  addressing  the  older  man  as  "sir" ;  if  she 
remained  silent  it  was  from  preference ;  she  could  have 
come  in  whenever  she  liked.  He  fell  back  on  the  safer 
subject  of  the  portrait,  which  young  Selwyn  was  hold- 
ing out  at  arm's  length  with  an  expression  half  pleased 
and  half  dissatisfied.  "I'm  sure  it's  uncommonly 
clever." 

"Y-yes  it  is,"  agreed  the  boy  gravely.  "It's  Eve  all 
over,  he  so  often  looks  as  though  if  you  t-touched  him 
he  wouldn't  be  there.  I've  never  done  anything  bet- 
ter." Dent  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Oh,  you  didn't 
know?  That  was  r-rather  a  shame,  to  ask  you  how  you 
liked  it  without  telling  you  it  was  mine.  But  fellows 
often  do  seem  to  know  me."  He  paused  a  moment 
and  then  added  "S-somehow,"  in  a  deprecating  voice. 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  know  anyone,"  said  Dent,  smiling 
at  him.  "I'm  a  country  cousin.  I  only  turn  up  in 
town  once  a  twelvemonth  to  go  to  an  Agricultural 
Show.  It  must  be  a  good  ten  years  since  I've  been 
to  the  Academy." 

"Better  introduce  ourselves,  shall  we?"  said  the 
elder  man.  "The  young  ?un  is  Selwyn  Yarborough." 
Dent  opened  his  eyes ;  even  he,  though  his  views  were 
bounded  by  Burlington  House,  had  heard  of  Selwyn 
Yarborough,  Tennant's  favourite  pupil,  and  so  a  spirit- 
ual grandson  of  Carolus  Duran,  whose  work  at  twenty- 
two  had  been  hung  on  the  line  at  the  Autumn  Salon. 
"And  Wright  and  I  are  Messenger  men."  Now  the 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  11 

Messenger  was  the  illustrated  paper  that  Dent  read 
over  his  breakfast  table  every  Friday  morning.  "I'm 
Hurst — Cecil  Hurst — and  Wright  does  rotten  sketches 
to  illustrate  my  rotten  stories."  Another  shock  to 
Dent's  preconceptions ;  but  for  the  sparkle  of  sagacity 
and  courage  in  the  light-blue  dangerous  eye,  this 
hard-bitten  fighting  journalist  might  have  passed  for 
a  prosperous  grocer. 

"And  I'm  only  George  Dent,  and  a  hopeless  duffer," 
Dent  said  smiling,  "though  I've  seen  or  heard  of  all 
your  things.  I  wish  I  weren't  such  an  outsider.  Oh ! 
wait  a  bit,  though,  I'm  indispensable  after  all — I'm 
the  admiring  public !" 

"Well,  and  what  about  me?"  the  girl  in  the  black 
and  gold  coat  raised  her  voice  for  the  first  time. 
"Haven't  any  of  you  got  enough  manners  to  introduce 
me  to  Mr  Dent?" 

Hurst  turned  round  and  smiled  at  her,  a  good  kind 
smile  that  touched  his  face  with  beauty.  But  no 
one  was  ready  with  a  reply,  and  there  was  time  for 
Dent  to  feel  distressed  again  and  uncomfortable,  be- 
fore he  became  aware  that  Evelyn  himself  was  in  the 
room,  appearing  from  nowhere  with  his  usual  belated 
grace,  and  smiling  down  at  Sophy  with  whimsical  yet 
melancholy  eyes. 

"You're  the  star  to  all  our  wandering  barks,"  he 
said  in  his  pleasant  voice,  naturally  soft,  but  the  softer 
for  a  tone  of  affection  which  struck  strangely  on 
Dent's  bewildered  ear.  "The  rest  of  us  play  tricks  on 
platforms,  George  is  the  fat  public  in  the  stalls,  and 
you  fling  the  laurel  when  we  earn  it :  and  that's  all 
the  introduction  you  deserve." 


12  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Dent  would  have  liked  to  send  the  unseasonable 
guests  packing.  But  they  were  in  no  hurry,  and  after 
all  his  errand  could  wait.  The  room  was  soon  blue 
with  smoke  and  Sophy  accepted  a  cigar  from  Evelyn. 
By  degrees  Dent  gathered  that  the  pianist,  fresh  home 
from  a  brilliant  visit  to  Paris,  had  given  that  evening 
a  more  than  usually  brilliant  performance  and  had 
been  encored  again  and  again  by  a  Queen's  Hall 
audience  full  in  spite  of  the  wet  weather :  there  was 
talk  of  other  men  and  comparison  of  other  triumphs. 
But  there  was  no  sign  of  elation  in  him,  he  was  still 
the  same  quiet  easy-going  Charles  Evelyn  as  in  old 
days,  and  Dent,  who  had  been  feeling  irritated,  soon 
found  himself  falling  afresh  under  the  old  charm ;  he 
never  had  been  able  to  be  angry  with  Evelyn  and 
was  not  now.  And  by  and  by  he  began  to  wonder 
whether  this  disability  were  not  common  to  the  rest 
of  the  room,  even  Meredith  in  his  detachment,  even 
the  still  anonymous  Sophy :  they  were  all  very  proud 
of  him,  it  was  evident,  and  though  they  were  not 
all  fond  of  one  another,  young  Yarborough  being  much 
inclined  to  fall  out  with  Meredith,  and  Meredith  with 
the  imperturbable  Wright,  for  Evelyn  their  feeling 
seemed  to  range  between  willing  and  unwilling 
love. 

Hurst  said  "Play  us  the  Alkan  again,"  and  without 
affectation  Evelyn  sat  down  at  once  to  the  piano  and 
began  to  play,  keeping  his  wrists  low  with  little  move- 
ment of  the  shoulders :  "Alkan's  Le  Vent,  The  Wind," 
as  he  explained  to  Dent,  whose  French  was  of  the  fur- 
thest end  of  Norfolk.  And  very  queer  music  Dent 
thought  it,  and  (privately)  much  like  that  mythopoeic 
tune  that  the  old  cow  died  of.  A  run  of  infinitesimal 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  13 

unstressed  notes  flying  up  and  down  the  treble  octaves, 
separate  notes  no  longer  but  indistinguishably 
mingled  like  the  wail  of  a  violin :  a  lull  and  break  of 
sun  and  blue  sky :  the  roar  of  a  gale  rising  to  thunder 
in  a  spinney  of  fir  trees :  and  then  again  the  run  and 
ripple  and  cold  ceaseless  crying  of  wind  on  a  thymy 
moor.  .  .  . 

"Not  so  bad,"  said  Hurst  frowning,  as  Evelyn  let 
his  hands  lie  on  the  keys,  prolonging  the  last  faint 
vibrations  which  were  just  not  silence,  and  then  were 
silence.  "But  I  don't  hold  with  programme-music 
all  the  same.  And  what  business  have  you  to  make 
the  piano  do  the  job  of  a  violin — eh,  Sophy?  Tell  me 
that,  young  Evelyn." 

"But  that's  what  the  B.  P.  like,"  said  Wright.  "No- 
body wants  to  hear  a  penny  whistle.  But  all  London 
would  go  miles  to  hear  a  chap  who  could  make  a  trom- 
bone sound  like  a  penny  whistle." 

"Oh  you  be  quiet!"  said  Evelyn,  getting  up  from 
the  piano.  "I've  got  to  master  my  tools,  haven't  I?" 

"And  earn  a  living  like  the  rest  of  us,"  put  in  Mere- 
dith from  before  the  mirror  in  which  he  was  calmly 
examining  the  sit  of  his  coat. 

"  'Like  the  rest  of  us !'  "  Wright  pointed  a  derisive 
finger.  "Now  then,  lily  of  the  field !" 

"We  are  not  all  so  innocent  as  you  are,  my  dear 
Wright,"  said  Meredith  with  the  neatly  genial  smile 
which  so  often  gave  to  his  acidities  a  delusive  aspect  of 
compliment.  "This  flat  is  extremely  comfortable,  and 
I  don't  suppose  Evelyn  could  pay  the  rent  of  it  out  of 
his  unearned  income.  For  my  part,  if  I  were  he,  I  had 
rather  play  Pomp  and  Circumstance  into  a  gramo- 
phone than  retire  to  a  garret  in  Bloomsbury." 


14  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Ah !  but  there  speaks  the  gross  soul  of  the  unthink- 
ing bourgeoisie — " 

Dent  perceived  that  Meredith  did  not,  no,  he  really 
did  not  like  that  joke  about  the  'bourgeoisie. 

"I  don't  care  a  button  for  any  one  of  the  lot  of 
you,"  said  Evelyn  pettishly.  "I  only  want  to  be  let 
alone.  I  do  hate  being  worried!"  He  brought  both 
hands  down  on  the  keys  again  in  a  crash  of  chords 
which  made  Selwyn  jump,  but  he  was  not  allowed 
to  proceed,  for  before  a  dozen  bars  were  over  Fraser 
hurried  in — Fraser,  once  defined  by  Leslie  Wright  as 
"one  of  those  faithful  servants  whose  service  is  per- 
fect freedom." 

"Mr  Efelyn  will  remember  that  he  promised  not  to 
make  a  noise  after  elef en  o'clock !" 

"Oh  bother!"  said  Evelyn  piteously.  "I  forgot  the 
people  downstairs.  Oh  Fraser,  I  haven't  done  it  for 
ever  so  long !  They  ought  to  be  able  to  stand  a  little 
noise  now  and  then?" 

"That  iss  fery  well,  but  it  iss  not  six  months  since 
we  were  turned  out  of  our  last  flat,  and  it  iss  not 
easy  to  find  rooms  that  will  suit  us."  He  shut  the 
piano:  Dent  was  only  surprised  that  he  did  not  lock 
it.  "An<l  it  iss  not  true  to  say  it  wass  only  a  little 
noise.  It  wass  a  fery  great  deal." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  abashed  as  Fraser 
withdrew,  dignified,  and  casting  a  reproachful  glance 
on  Sophy,  who  had  been  seized  by  irrepressible  laugh- 
ter. But  Evelyn,  though  he  joined  in  the  universal  en- 
suing merriment,  continued  to  look  a  little  harassed, 
as  though  the  world  were  too  much  for  him.  He  flung 
himself  anyhow  into  a  chair  by  Dent,  his  legs  over 
one  arm  of  it  and  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  15 

rumpled  head.  "You  can't  imagine,  George,  what  a 
nuisance  it  is  having  to  live  in  town!  One  o'  these 
days  I  shall  make  hay  of  my  rooms  and  take  off  all 
my  clothes  and  go  to  Central  Africa — where  there 
won't  be  any  people  downstairs!"  he  finished  with  a 
ferocity  which  quite  startled  Dent,  to  whom  the  pro- 
vocation seemed  inadequate.  A  little  out  of  his  depth, 
Dent  suggested  the  soothing  influence  of  complimen- 
tary tickets.  "No  good,"  Evelyn  shook  his  head. 
"The  Hippodrome's  their  fancy." 

"Poor  wretches,"  said  Selwyn,  genuinely  compas- 
sionate. "One  ought  to  feel  s-sorry  for  them.  How 
aw-awful  it  would  be  to  be  like  that!"  Lying  back 
in  his  chair  before  the  fire,  he  stretched  himself  on  his 
cushions  with  a  little  shiver  of  distaste  and  flung 
out  one  hand  to  Sophy  as  if  for  consolation :  and  as 
she  leant  forward  smiling  at  him,  her  coat  slipping 
from  her  shoulders,  their  youthful  slenderness  and 
satin  texture  gleaming  under  the  transparent  black 
gauze  of  her  dress,  again  Dent  found  himself  wonder- 
ing who  she  was  and  what  had  brought  her  to  Hever 
Street.  He  thought  her  not  exactly  pretty,  but  at- 
tractive; her  eyes  were  thoughtful,  her  lips  sensitive, 
and  the  young  figure  flowering  out  of  her  open  bodice 
was  grace  itself.  Too  graceful  for  Dent :  and  too  free 
in  its  grace. 

"There  now,"  her  roving  fingers  brushed  across 
Selwyn's  lashes,  "look  what  you've  done!" 

"Never?"  said  Evelyn,  diverted.  But  it  was  true, 
there  were  tears  in  Selwyn's  eyes.  "Well,  you're  what 
I  call  an  audience  worth  playing  to!  Now  what's 
the  matter?"  Selwyn  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  abashed 
and  glowing.  "Don't  blush,  young  'un — not  but 


16  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

what  that  sunset  shade  is  rather  becoming  to  you — " 

"Do  shut  up !"  said  Selwyn  crossly.  He  wandered 
away  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  room.  "C-catch 
me  crying  over  anything  you  ever  play  again !"  This 
time  Evelyn's  freakish  malice  widened  suddenly  into 
a  broad  grin. 

"  'Bet  you  an  even  tenner  you  can't  hold  out  through 
half  a  dozen  Songs  Without  Words!" 

"Peace,  Faun/'  said  Hurst  with  his  paternal  kind- 
ness, "don't  meddle  with  the  bloom." 

"Hurst's  right,  you  are  a  bit  of  a  Faun,  you  know," 
said  Sophy.  She  got  up  and  leant  over  the  back  of 
Evelyn's  chair,  winding  her  arm  round  his  neck  and 
gazing  down  at  him  with  an  infinity  of  tender  and 
uncritical  sweetness.  Dent  did  not  know  where  to 
look,  but  no  one  else  seemed  to  feel  any  surprise. 
"We  all  love  you  better  than  you  love  us.  But  'tisn't 
fair  to  tease  the  baby-boy.  Besides,  it's  dangerous, 
Selwyn's  pretty  safe  to  get  his  own  back — " 

"Hallo !"  Selwyn  in  all  innocence  was  in  the  act  of 
doing  so.  "Eve,  you've  got  a  new  photograph!  Oh, 
how  v-very  pretty !  I  should  like  to  paint  her.  Would 
she  let  me?  I  would  paint  her  for  nothing.  Is 
she  a  1-lady?" 

"Put  it  down,  old  fellow,"  said  Hurst  gently. 

"Here,  you  let  me  see!"  said  Sophy.  She  took  the 
photograph  out  of  Selwyn's  hand. 

Dent  glanced  at  Evelyn :  an  Evelyn  less  serene  than 
usual  and  less  competent  to  control  the  situation.  He 
looked  as  though  he  would  have  liked  to  regain  pos- 
session, if  he  could  have  done  so  without  giving  the 
incident  an  unwelcome  significance.  Among  so  many 
portraits  Dent  had  not  noticed  this  one,  could  not 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  17 

see  it  from  his  chair  by  the  fire,  and  was  not  interested 
in  it,  except  that  on  general  principles  he  felt  a  vague 
reluctance,  perhaps  in  sympathy  with  Evelyn,  to 
leave  it  for  Sophy  to  comment  on :  but,  though  indif- 
ferent to  the  portrait,  he  could  not,  for  reasons  of  his 
own,  remain  indifferent  to  Evelyn's  connection  with 
it  or  with  Sophy. 

"I  wish  she  weren't  a  1-lady,"  lamented  Selwyn.  "I 
do  want  to  paint  her !" 

"What  do  you  want  her  for,"  said  Sophy,  "a  figure 
model?" 

Hurst  glanced  at  Dent  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye 
and  was  not  surprised  to  find  that  the  country  squire 
— Hurst's  rapid  summing  up  of  him — was  growing 
restless.  And  Evelyn,  who  should  have  intervened, 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  sipping  an 
innocuous  French  sirop  and  apparently  paying  no  at- 
tention to  Selwyn  or  Sophy  either.  Then  Sophy  turned 
to  Meredith :  "Isn't  this  a  pretty  woman,  Meredith — ?" 

Meredith  was  perfectly  willing  to  look  at  the  photo- 
graph, but  before  he  had  time  to  do  so  Hurst  got  up 
and  took  it  out  of  Sophy's  fingers.  He  bent  them 
over  so  that  the  pictured  face  was  turned  down  out 
of  his  sight,  but  Sophy  tried  to  turn  it  up  again 
and  between  them  they  let  it  drop.  It  fell  near  Dent's 
chair.  The  country  squire  uttered  a  slight  exclama- 
tion, then,  as  Hurst  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  forestalled 
him  with  an  extremely  quick  and  quiet  movement 
and  slipped  it  into  his  own  pocket. 

"It  is  my  sister,"  he  explained. 

"O  Lord !"  said  Sophy. 

Hurst  straightened  himself  rather  stiffly.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir.  I  was  going  to  put  it  back  on  the 


18  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

shelf."  He  glanced  at  Evelyn.  But  Evelyn  was  still 
drinking  his  sirop  and  looking  at  no  one.  "Selwyn  is 
painting-mad,"  Hurst  continued  gravely.  "Hey,  Sel- 
wyn? He  never  meant  any  harm  in  his  life.  No  one 
minds  what  he  says." 

"I  certainly  don't,"  said  Dent  smiling. 

Hurst  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  away, 
pulling  Sophy's  hand  through  his  arm.  "I  guess  it's 
time  we  all  went  to  bed.  It's  after  one  o'clock  and 
Evelyn's  tired — you  were  looking  fagged  on  the  plat- 
form, Eve:  'stands  to  reason  it  must  take  it  out  of 
you,  if  it  were  only  the  physical  effort  and  the  strain 
on  the  memory.  Come  along,  Sophy,  my  dear,  Eve's 
had  enough  of  us." 

"Eight  you  are,  ~bonpapa,"  said  Sophy  carelessly: 
"good  night  boys — good  night,  Charles." 

Meredith  brought  her  coat,  and  Hurst  with  his 
deft  strong  hand,  as  pink  and  plump  as  a  baby's,  gath- 
ered up  her  handkerchief  and  programme  and  gloves, 
and  Sophy  went  meekly  with  him  to  the  door.  But 
on  the  threshold  she  turned,  and  then  it  seemed  to 
Dent  that  he  saw  her  thoroughly  alive  for  the  first 
time — a  strong  little  face,  innocent  yet  reckless,  with 
what  he  termed  to  himself  Old  Nick's  own  smile  on 
her  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 

"Say,  Mr.  Dent,  is  your  sister  as  nice  as  you  are? 
Nicer?  And  so  pretty  too?  My!  I  don't  call  that 
fair.  But  'tisn't  any  good,  he's  a  non-starter."  A  jerk 
of  the  silken  head  indicated  Evelyn.  "Oh  bless  you, 
yes,  I  know  him — better  than  he  knows  himself.  He 
wouldn't  give  that  for  any  one  of  the  lot  of  us,  not  if 
it  was  Venus  of  Troy  and  Mrs.  Beeton  rolled  into 
one !" 


CHAPTER  II 

TT  IT  THEN  all  the  guests  had  departed — Meredith 
V^^  the  last  to  go — Evelyn  stretched  himself 
with  a  frank  yawn  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Then  coming  back  to  the  fire  he  caught  Dent  by  both 
hands  and  stood  before  him  swinging  his  arms  to  and 
fro.  "My  dear  old  chap,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you! 
Rather  a  bore  having  all  that  gang  in  just  when  I  was 
wanting  to  talk  to  you.  But  none  of  them  would  clear 
out  because  none  of  them  would  want  us  to  clear  out 
if  they  were  in  our  shoes,  except  Meredith,  and  he 
wouldn't  care.  All  the  same  I'm  glad  you  saw  them. 
Didn't  you  like  Hurst?  Interesting  chap,  Hurst: 
he's  been  all  over  the  world,  he  and  Wright,  opposites 
and  inseparables — they  haven't  a  thing  in  common 
except  goodness  of  heart.  Sit  down  now,"  he  pushed 
Dent  back  into  his  chair,  "and  have  another  pipe. 
Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming  down? 
And  can  you  let  me  have  a  tip  for  the  Leger?" 

Dent  had  not  come  to  Hever  Street  to  discuss  the 
St.  Leger  prospects.  But  his  business  though  import- 
ant was  not  exactly  pressing,  and  having  waited  so 
long  it  might  as  well  wait  a  little  longer.  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair  and  examined  Evelyn,  on  one  knee 
before  the  fire,  his  clear  pale  face  faintly  reddened  by 
its  glow. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  this  photograph  of  Kitty." 

"She  only  sent  it  me  a  few  days  ago.    Very  like  her, 

isn't  it?    I  never  meant  to  leave  it  on  my  table,  but 

19 


20  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

I  liked  looking  at  it  and  then  I  forgot.  I'll  put  it 
away  now  in  a  safer  place."  He  stretched  out  his 
hand  for  it — carelessly,  to  all  appearance.  But  Dent 
continued  to  hold  it  on  his  knee,  looking  at  it  as  if  it 
had  been  the  portrait  of  a  stranger — always  a  difficult 
criterion  for  a  brother,  but  less  so  for  Dent  than  usual 
because  this  portrait  had  in  it  a  quality  of  the  univer- 
sal which  makes  some  faces  the  property  of  the  world 
and  not  only  of  their  own  families.  It  represented 
Kitty  Dent  seated  before  a  piano,  her  head  thrown 
back,  her  lips  apart,  her  fingers  leaning  on  the 
keys:  apparently  she  had  just  finished  singing  and 
was  turning  round  while  the  last  faint  vibrations 
floated  away.  She  wore  a  light  dress,  open  at  the 
throat,  and  crossed  in  close,  soft,  Eomney  folds  over 
her  bosom :  and  an  immense  round  hat  of  fine  straw, 
no  trimming  on  it  but  a  scarf,  which  made  a  slightly 
tilted  frame  for  her  small  face  and  liquid  eyes.  The 
impression  left  by  the  absence  of  shading  was  one  of 
clear  fairness  and  unusually  delicate  grain. 

"Very  like,"  said  Dent.  He  ignored  Evelyn's  hand 
and  slipped  the  photograph  again  into  his  pocket. 

"That's  mine,  you  know,"  said  Evelyn,  getting  up 
to  warm  the  backs  of  his  legs  at  the  fire.  "By  Jove 
it  is  a  cold  night  for  this  end  of  September!  The 
wind's  Arctic.  It's  mine,  George :  and  I  want  it." 

"You  should  take  better  care  of  it  then." 

"Well,  so  I  will  in  future."  Evelyn  gave  his  sweet- 
tempered  equable  laugh.  "But  you  can't  have  it. 
It  was  given  me  for  keeps.  There's  an  inscription." 

Dent  had  read  the  inscription :  "With  Kitty's  love." 
He  was  wondering  whether  that  girl  in  the  black  and 
gold  coat  had  read  it  too.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  21 

and  squared  his  shoulders,  looking  up  at  Evelyn  with 
a  smile  equally  sweet-tempered  and  equally  resolute. 
"Kitty  didn't  bargain  for  such  a  lot  of  admiration." 

"Marry  come  up — is  that  because  of  Selwyn  Yar- 
borough?  Oh,  you  don't  understand.  No  one  minds 
Selwyn.  In  point  of  fact  if  he  did  paint  Kitty  it  would 
be  a  tremendous  honour,  he's  all  the  vogue  just  now 
and  could  paint  peers  and  judges  and  Society  beauties 
all  day  long  if  he  chose,  but  he  won't  touch  sitters 
unless  he  likes  the  look  of  them — says  he's  out  for 
character  as  well  as  clothes,  which  naturally  narrows 
the  field  a  good  deal!  He  goes  about  with  his  head 
in  a  bag  and  cares  for  nothing  on  earth  but  his  art. 
.  .  ."  But  it  was  plain  that  George  Dent  was  thor- 
oughly indifferent  to  Selwyn's  art.  "Oh,  George,  you 
don't  understand !"  said  Evelyn  laughing.  "Well,  how 
shall  I  placate  you?  Can't  you  see  how  fond  we  all 
are  of  him?  except  Meredith,  and  that's  one  up  for 
Selwyn :  it's  his  innocence  that  annoys  Meredith — he 
calls  it  affectation  because  he  can't  bring  himself  to  be- 
lieve that  a  young  fellow  of  Selwyn's  age  can  have 
a  mind  so  like  a  girl." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  did  object  to  young  Yarbor- 
ough — much." 

"What  then— Hurst?" 

"A  very  good  sort,  I'm  sure." 

"My  own  carelessness?" 

"Not  exactly  a  novelty,  Eve." 

"But  you  were  peevish." 

Dent  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  to  knock  out 
the  ashes  and  put  it  back  again. 

"Sophy,"  said  Evelyn  after  a  short  silence,  "lives  in 
the  flat  above  mine  and  is  a  great  friend  of  us  all." 


22  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"So  it  appears,"  said  Dent  placidly.  "By  the  by, 
no  one  ever  told  me  her  name.  It's  awkward  some- 
times, not  knowing  what  to  call  a  woman  when  you're 
talking  to  her.  Miss  Carter?  Thanks.  I  wondered, 
when  she  came  in,  whether  she  was  Meredith's  sister 
or  his  wife  or  what.  They  came  in  together." 

"He  got  to  know  her  when  she  was  a  model  in 
Paris." 

"Really?  I  don't  know  much  about  models  but  I 
always  fancied  they  were  recruited  from  a  different 
class." 

"Is  this  inquisition  meant  for  Sophy  or  for  me?" 

"Oh,  you,  you,  entirely  you,"  Dent  hastened  to  as- 
sure him  with  a  friendly  wave  of  his  pipe.  "Needless 
to  say,  Miss  Carter's  goings  on,  I  mean  her  way  of  set- 
tling her  life,  aren't  the  remotest  concern  of  mine. 
But  as  you're  supposed,  at  some  distant  and  uncertain 
date,  to  be  going  to  marry  my  sister,  if  neither  of  you 
changes  what  you  call  your  mind  in  the  interval,  I 
must  own,  Eve,  I  couldn't  quite  make  Miss  Sophy 
out." 

"The  passion  for  making  people  out,"  said  Evelyn, 
sitting  down  again  and  beginning  to  take  off  his  boots, 
"is  strong  in  the  bucolic  mind.  Where  on  earth  are 
my  slippers?  And  what  earthly  business  is  it  of 
yours  to  try  to  make  poor  Sophy  out?  How  would 
you  like  it  if  a  fellow  that  had  never  seen  her  but 
once  in  his  life  set  to  work  to  make  Kitty  out?"  Dent 
was  galvanised  into  indignation,  but  though  he  sat 
up  with  his  mouth  open  he  was  not  given  any  chance  to 
remonstrate.  "Oh  my  Lord,  Caesar's  wife!"  As 
usual,  Evelyn's  melancholy  scorn  put  all  disagreement 
firmly  in  the  wrong.  It  never  made  Dent  budge  one 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  23 

inch  from  his  original  position,  but  he  felt  safer  so 
long  as  he  did  not  argue.  "What !  isn't  poor  Sophy 
good  enough  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath?" 
Evelyn  demanded.  He  had  found  his  slippers  inside 
the  coal  scuttle,  and  putting  them  on  he  turned  side- 
ways in  his  chair  towards  Dent,  one  long  slim  leg 
thrown  over  the  other,  one  hand  propping  his  chin. 
"Why  can't  you  ask  for  your  facts  instead  of  nosing 
round  like  a  dog  behind  a  dustbin?  Sophy  isn't  Mere- 
dith's ladylove.  And  she  isn't  Selwyn's  either:  he 
hasn't  one  and  never  has  had.  Nor  is  she  mine,  which 
is  what  you  really  want  to  know,  isn't  it?  She  was  a 
figure  model  in  Tennant's  studio.  Her  father  was 
an  English  submarine  officer,  and  her  mother  was  a 
French  waitress  in  a  cracker-and-tinsel  teashop  on  the 
quay  at  Rouen,  name  of  Chartier.  It  wasn't  a  misal- 
liance because  it  wasn't  a  marriage  at  all,  but  she 
was  a  beautiful  woman  and  it  was  a  serious  tie,  what 
you  call  mutually  exclusive.  As  long  as  he  was  alive 
he  kept  her  in  a  villa  at  Fontainebleau  where  he  used 
to  spend  his  leaves,  can't  you  imagine  it?  but  he  was 
drowned  in  a  collision  at  mameuvres,  and  though  his 
relations  offered  to  take  Sophy  Madame  Chartier 
stuck  to  her  child  and  her  independence.  Then  she 
died  too  and  Sophy  was  in  very  low  water  for  a  time. 
That  was  when  Tennant  got  hold  of  her.  Eventually 
one  of  the  English  aunts  left  her  a  bit  of  money,  and 
she  chucked  studio  work  and  turned  over  a  new  leaf. 
Since  then  she  has  been  highly  respectable  and  I  be- 
lieve rather  dull:  that  is  an  accident  to  which  re- 
spectability is  liable." 

"Thank  you :  I  feel  it." 

"Any  further  information  I  can  offer  you?" 


24  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"None,"  said  Dent  smiling  at  him.  "And  I  beg 
your  pardon.  But  I'm  rather  out  of  my  depth,  you  see. 
I  don't  know  much  about  painters  or  musicians  ex- 
cept that  they  generally  seem  to  lead  rather  queer 
lives.  Oh  yes,  there  is  one  thing  more,  which  you 
might  tell  me  if,  as  I  suppose,  it's  common  knowledge 
in  all  your  set.  Did  you  say  there  never  was  any- 
thing between  her  and  Meredith?" 

Evelyn  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  understood  you  to 
say  you  weren't  interested  in  Sophy  personally?" 

"No  more  I  am :  but  I  felt  sorry  for  her.  It's  a  sad 
little  face." 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  Evelyn  shortly. 

"I  see,"  said  Dent,  dismissing  the  subject  with  a 
nod. 

He  put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  and  drew  in  his  legs, 
turning  squarely  towards  Evelyn  as  if  he  were  brac- 
ing himself  to  a  delayed  and  disagreeable  duty. 

"Well,  Eve,  it's  very  good  of  you  to  have  put  up  with 
such  a  catechism.  But  London  hasn't  altered  you, 
you're  just  the  same  old  Eve  you  used  to  be  when  we 
played  cricket  in  the  field  behind  the  house.  In  those 
days  you  didn't  often  answer  questions  and  never 
asked  any,  and  you  haven't  done  it  now.  Weren't 
you  surprised  at  my  turning  up  in  your  rooms  with- 
out warning  at  ten  o'clock  at  night?  No?  Well, 
I  suppose  midnight  and  mid-day  are  all  one  to  you. 
But  they  ain't  to  me,  I  like  my  regular  hours.  I 
shouldn't  have  come  round  so  late,  in  fact  I  shouldn't 
have  come  down  to  town  at  all  at  this  time  of  year, 
if  I  hadn't  had  an  uncommonly  serious  reason." 

"Serious?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  a  bit  of  bad  news  for  you." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  25 

"Not  Kitty  ill?"  said  Evelyn,  half  rising. 

"No:  I  shouldn't  have  left  her  if  she  were.  No, 
it's  bad  news  for  you  alone.  Sit  down,  old  man." 
He  threw  his  arm  round  Evelyn's  neck.  "It's  about 
Philip.  No,  not  ill.  Worse  than  that.  Dead." 

"Dead!    Philip?' 

"M'm." 

"But — how  awfully  sudden!"  said  Evelyn.  Dent 
felt  him  shivering.  He  kept  his  arm  over  Evelyn's 
shoulders  and  said  no  more  till  the  difficult,  self-con- 
tained, but  nervous  nature  got  its  poise  back :  then  rose 
and  leant  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  standing  with 
his  back  to  Evelyn  and  the  other  hand  thrust  deep 
into  his  pocket.  "But  I  had  a  letter  from  him  two  days 
ago!"  said  Evelyn  in  a  dazed  voice.  "Are  you — of 
course  you  are  sure.  Was  it — was  it  an  accident?" 

"Yes,  and  a  bad  one." 

"Oh  ...  go  on." 

"He  was  out  riding  on  a  young  mare,  schooling 
her  about  the  lanes,  and  they  came  suddenly  on  a 
motor  lorry.  You  recollect  the  railway  arch  up  by 
Green's  Farm?  It  was  round  that  sharp  corner 
where  the  road's  narrow.  There  was  a  train  going  by 
overhead,  and  apparently  he  was  coaxing  the  mare 
along  and  never  heard  the  lorry  till  it  was  on  top 
of  him.  Then  the  double  fright  was  too  much  for 
her,  and  she  backed  up  against  the  wall,  crossed  her 
legs  and  fell  with  him.  The  men  on  the  lorry  couldn't 
stop  it  in  time.  He  was  badly  crushed.  No,  not  his 
head:  the  off  fore  wheel  went  over  his  loins.  They 
got  a  gate  off  its  hinges,  put  him  on  it  and  carried  him 
home.  He  lived  about  six  hours,  just  breathing." 

"When—?" 


26  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Yesterday,  between  seven  and  eight  in  the  evening ; 
too  late  to  wire  to  you.  The  first  we  heard  of  it  was 
Cotton  coming  round  to  ask  me  to  go  up  at  once.  I 
was  out,  but  Kitty  flew  across — " 

"Kitty  did?" 

"Of  course  she  did.  She  was  alone  with  the  serv- 
ants and  doctor  from  eight  o'clock  till  close  on  ten. 
It  was  a  good  job,  because  Philip  was  conscious  enough 
then  to  talk  to  her  from  time  to  time.  When  I  saw 
him,  speech  was  gone.  But  there  was  no  pain." 

"Why  wasn't  I  sent  for  sooner?" 

"There  are  no  trains  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  old 
fellow,  and  I  couldn't  come  off  the  first  thing  this 
morning  because  it  was  cattle-market  day  and  I'd 
arranged  to  meet  a  Cumberland  man  who  was  only 
in  Cambridge  between  trains.  We  might  have  got 
through  on  the  telephone,  but  it'd  have  been  too  late 
in  any  case.  We  all  knew  that  from  the  first." 

"So  you  determined  to  wait  till  you  could  break 
the  news  in  person  and  soften  the  shock?  That's 
like  you,"  said  Evelyn  with  a  shade  of  ambiguity  in 
his  manner.  "Well,  I  won't  deny  it  is  something  of 
a  shock.  Were  you  there  when  he  died?" 

"Yes :  it  was  difficult  to  tell  when  he  did  die.  One 
minute  he  was  breathing  and  the  next  he  wasn't,  that 
was  about  all." 

"Not  disfigured?" 

"Hardly.  A  bit  of  a  mark  on  his  face,  I  think  the 
mare's  hoof  must  have  touched  him  as  he  fell:  but 
it's  impossible  to  get  anything  like  a  straightforward 
account  out  of  the  men  on  the  lorry.  They  don't  seem 
to  have  taken  in  what  was  happening  till — till  it  was 
over." 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  27 

"But  his  body.  .  .?" 

"Well.  .  .  ." 

"No  pain?  His  back  was  broken,  I  suppose.  What 
happened  to  the  mare?" 

"She  had  to  be  shot.  Do  you  really  want  to  know 
all  these  details,  Eve?  Don't  they  only  make  you 
sick?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  want  to  do.  I  believe  I  want 
to  cry,  like  Selwyn,"  said  Evelyn.  He  dropped  his 
face  on  his  hand,  but  only  for  a  moment.  "That's  no 
good,  I  couldn't  if  I  tried.  I  say,  George,  old  man, 
this  is  a  rotten  business.  I  wish  I  hadn't  had  such 
a  lot  of  rows  with  Philip.  I  wasn't  a  bit  fond  of  him, 
you  know !  Or  was  I?"  He  looked  wistfully  up  into 
Dent's  kind,  distressed  eyes.  "I've  never  done  any- 
thing but  have  rows  with  Philip  from  earliest  infancy 
when  they  couldn't  even  put  us  in  the  same  perambula- 
tor, but  then  I  never  thought  of  his  going  and  dying 
before  I  did.  Let  me  see,  how  old  am  I?  Twenty- 
eight — then  Philip  was  only  twenty-nine.  There  were 
barely  eleven  months  between  us." 

"I  fancy  if  you  had  been  further  apart  you  would 
have  got  on  better.  There  were  faults  on  both  sides, 
Eve,  don't  you  go  blaming  yourself  unduly.  I  was 
awfully  fond  of  Philip  and  so  was  Kitty,  but  he  never 
could  forget  he  was  the  elder  brother,  and  he  did  try 
to  ride  you  on  too  tight  a  rein.  I've  often  told  him  it 
couldn't  be  done  on  eleven  months'  seniority.  He 
used  to  behave  to  you  as  if  it  were  twenty  years !" 

"He  used  to  tell  me  I  was  careless  and  extravagant : 
and  so  I  was." 

"Aye:  you  were." 

"I've  always  lived  up  to  my  allowance  and  a  bit 


28  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

beyond  it.  .  .  yes,  even  now,  though  I've  made  a  lot  of 
money  these  last  five  years.  But  do  you  know  what 
this  flat  stands  me  in?"  Dent  had  no  idea.  "And  I 
shan't  tell  you,"  said  Evelyn.  "You're  my  future 
brother-in-law,  and  I  suppose  now  Philip's  dead  you'll 
take  on  his  job."  He  leant  back  in  his  chair,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  both  legs  stretched  out  before 
him.  "The  last  letter  I  had  from  him  was  to  warn 
me  that  I  was  overdrawn  at  the  bank.  I  tore  it  up 
and  chucked  it  into  that  paper  basket.  I  dare  say 
it's  there  now.  Oh,  this  is  a  rotten  business !  It  never 
entered  my  head  that  Philip  would  go  before  I  did: 
his  was  a  much  better  'life'  than  mine.  Bar  accidents 
he'd  have  lived  to  be  ninety :  I  shan't." 

"Why  do  you  say  so?  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  you,  is  there?" 

"No:  but  the  Evelyns  never  make  old  bones. 
Philip  wasn't  a  bit  of  an  Evelyn ;  he  was  a  Masson — 
he  took  after  my  mother's  family.  Do  you  know  if 
he  left  any  message  for  me?" 

"His  love." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"And  there  was  more  than  that :  but  Kitty  can  tell 
you  better  than  I  can.  Don't  take  it  so  to  heart,  Eve. 
There  were  faults  on  both  sides:  if  it  had  been  you 
that  were  killed,  Philip  would  have  had  just  as  good 
cause  to  repent,  or  more."  But  Philip,  Dent  reflected, 
would  not  have  wasted  many  minutes  on  repentance ; 
when  did  Philip  ever  act  on  impulse,  or  regret  an 
action?  The  narrow  inflexible  nature  was  strong 
where  Evelyn  was  weak,  and  respected,  by  inevitable 
corollary,  where  Evelyn  was  loved ;  though  George  and 
Kitty  Dent  had  loved  Philip  too  for  old  sakes'  sake, 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  29 

because  they  had  been  brought  up  with  him,  and  it 
was  not  in  their  conservative  souls  to  be  a  man's  neigh- 
bours all  their  lives  and  not  his  friends.  But  if  they 
had  loved  Philip  well  they  had  loved  Evelyn  better. 
George  Dent  could  not  bear  to  see  Evelyn  unhappy. 
In  the  lifelong  disagreement  between  the  brothers, 
his  sympathies  had  always  gone  out  to  Evelyn,  even 
when  his  judgment  occasionally  sided  with  Philip, 
and  he  would  have  said  so  much  more  emphatically 
but  for  the  certainty  that  he  would  only  anger 
Evelyn.  Timidly  he  touched  Evelyn's  shoulder. 
"Eve,  there's  so  often  trouble  of  this  kind; 
pretty  nearly  always  when  death  comes  suddenly  and 
there  isn't  time  to — to  make  friends."  Evelyn  stirred 
impatiently,  shaking  off  Dent's  hand. 

"I  know  all  that.  Don't  prose,  George ! — and  don't 
tell  me  I'm  an  ungrateful  ruffian,  because  I  know 
I  am.  I  say,  what  ought  I  to  do?  Pack  some  clothes 
and  go  up  to  Temple  Evelyn,  I  suppose;  there'll  be 
any  amount  of  business  to  attend  to.  Besides,  I  want 
to  see  Philip.  Oh  but  it  is  a  nuisance !  I  don't  want 
to  leave  town  just  now,  I'm  up  to  my  eyes  in  work. 
.  .  .  Now  have  I  shocked  you?  No :  you  and  Kitty  al- 
ways understand." 

"Yes,  old  man,  I  think  we  do." 

Dent  strolled  over  to  the  window  and  flung  it  wide, 
letting  in  a  chill  breath  of  riverside  night.  Below  lay 
a  broad  dark  road  not  much  frequented  by  traffic, 
and  beyond  it  the  trees  of  a  square,  their  foliage, 
after  the  heat  of  August,  already  beginning  to  rust 
and  fall.  Away  on  his  left  the  river  rolled  its  dark 
waters  under  Chelsea  Bridge  and  down  to  the  sea. 
Through  the  gloom  he  could  tell  it  was  the  river  only 


30  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

because  here  and  there  from  its  further  bank  a  lamp 
was  reflected  along  it  in  a  ladder  of  yellow  light,  which 
when  it  reached  the  current  was  broken  into  a  thou- 
sand stars  that  danced  on  the  tops  of  a  thousand 
little  waves ;  for  out  of  the  North  a  strong  wind  was 
blowing,  heaping  up  and  driving  before  it  tumultuous 
flights  of  cloud.  And  beyond  the  leafy  square  the 
forms  of  buildings  loomed  up  huge  and  dim,  the 
people  in  them  all  asleep,  while  now  and  again  over 
their  roofs  and  between  their  chimneys  a  star  showed 
flying,  winterpale  in  an  interstice  of  the  cloudy  chase : 
like  a  star  over  a  hill  on  the  other  side  of  a  wood. 
Like  most  people  who  love  the  country  and  cannot 
be  happy  for  long  out  of  it,  Dent  had  known  what  it 
was  to  feel  frightened  in  it.  But  there  are  night 
hours  in  London  that  produce  as  vivid  an  impres- 
sion of  hostile  life  and  dangerous  forces  as  any  wood 
full  of  snow  or  fiery  sunset  burning  itself  away  on 
the  edge  of  a  moor.  Dent  shivered:  he  was  not  a 
fanciful  man,  but  he  had  had  no  sleep  for  thirty-six 
hours  and  he  was  not  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  death. 
How  cold  it  was!  he  felt  as  though  he  were  stripped 
to  that  dark  wind.  And  how  lonely !  Charles  Evelyn 
seemed  far  away,  much  nearer  to  him  was  Philip, 
his  old  friend,  the  flitting  of  whose  soul  he  had 
watched  barely  twenty-four  hours  ago.  When  a  young 
active  man  is  struck  down  without  warning  and  with- 
out time  to  wean  himself  from  his  human  interests, 
it  is  difficult  not  to  think  of  his  spirit  as  lingering 
in  the  places  and  among  the  people  it  knew  when  it 
was  alive.  The  rushing  wind  made  the  curtain  shake 
and  the  candle  shiver.  What  was  that  story  of  the 
voice  that  cried  "Let  me  in"  ?  Dent  shut  the  window. 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  31 

Strange  Low  such  childish  superstitions  linger  in 
some  parts  of  the  country!  Dent  of  course  was  not 
superstitious.  .  .  .  He  drew  the  curtain. 

For  Evelyn,  a  townsman,  night  and  wind  were  night 
and  wind  and  nothing  more.  He  leant  forward  to 
rake  the  fire,  sending  a  stream  of  golden  sparks  up 
the  chimney.  "George,  it  was  good  of  you  to  come 
all  this  way  to  break  the  news  to  me.  Where  are  you 
staying?" 

"Where  I  always  do,  at  the  Liverpool  Street  Hotel, 
so  far  as  I'm  staying  anywhere.  But  I  shall  go  back 
to-morrow — to-day,  that  is.  I  should  like  a  few  hours' 
sleep,  we  none  of  us  had  much  last  night,  and  I've 
been  on  the  go  ever  since.  There's  an  express  at  ten- 
five  if  you  would  care  to  travel  up  with  me.  Kitty's 
going  to  drive  in  and  meet  it.  I  said  I  should  come 
by  it  if  I  could.  She's  dreadfully  sorry  about  this 
business,  Eve." 

"Very  disinterested  of  her,  seeing  that  I  shall  come 
into  Temple  Evelyn  now.  Not  much  money,  however : 
unless  I  sell  the  place." 

"Sell  it!"  George  Dent  echoed,  horrified.  "You 
never  would  do  that,  surely?" 

"I  must  either  sell  it  or  let  it.  I  could  never  afford 
to  live  in  it." 

"Philip  did." 

"Yes,  by  pinching  and  screwing  in  every  direction. 
Do  you  see  me  doing  that?  Philip  was  a  Masson: 
I'm  not.  Besides,  Philip  hadn't  any  debts.  I  owe  a 
devil  of  a  lot  of  money.  And  they'll  make  me  pay 
up  now,"  Evelyn  added  petulantly :  "they  always  do ; 
directly  one  comes  into  a  little  property  they  flock 
round  like  so  many  old  carrion  crows!"  He  strolled 


32  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

over  to  the  piano  and  struck  half  a  dozen  chords,  de- 
sisted and  let  the  lid  fall  with  a  slam.  "George,  I 
do  hate  it  all  so!  What  on  earth  was  Philip  such 
an  ass  for?  It's  not  as  if  he  couldn't  ride!  He  could 
sit  any  horse  that  ever  went  on  four  legs:  and  he 
had  beautiful  hands  too — beautiful  hands.  Which 
day  is  the  funeral?" 

"We  naturally  left  that  for  you  to  fix." 

"Oh!  much  obliged!  I'd  rather  fix  my  own. 
There'll  be  any  quantity  of  people  to  interview  and 
papers  to  sign  and  legal  forms  to  fill  up,  and  I  hate 
Hanmer  and  Hanmer  hates  me.  For  two  pins  I'd 
go  to  France  by  the  morning  boat  and  leave  no  ad- 
dress." George  Dent  made  no  attempt  to  argue  these 
futilities,  the  expression  partly  of  a  genuine  and  nat- 
ural incapacity  and  partly  of  a  repressed  wayward 
grief  which  found  no  outlet  except  ill  humour.  "And 
there  isn't  a  decent  piano  in  the  place,  there  never 
has  been  since  Kitty  and  I  upset  the  claret-cup  into 
the  intestines  of  the  Erard  in  the  library.  That  was 
Philip  all  over  to  refuse  to  get  another  one,  he  hated 
to  hear  me  touch  a  note."  He  laughed  out  and  ran 
his  hand  through  his  thick  brown  hair  till  it  stood  on 
end  in  a  plume.  "Quite  so,  I  am  eminently  unreason- 
able and  deplorably  childish  and  all  the  other  things 
that  you  so  nobly  haven't  called  me.  I'll  play  up 
when  I  get  to  Temple  Evelyn.  But — it's  a  cruel 
business."  He  ended  with  an  irrepressible,  suffocat- 
ing sob. 

"M'm,"  said  Dent,  staring  into  the  fire. 

"I'll  meet  you,  then,  at  Liverpool  Street  at  ten 
o'clock  this  morning." 

"Do.     And  try  not  to  be  late,  Eve,  for  once;  the 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  33 

place  is  at  sixes  and  sevens  without  you,  and  though 
I  took  a  good  deal  on  myself  there  were  a  great  many 
orders  I  can't  give." 

"Late!"  said  Evelyn  impatiently,   "is  it  likely  I 
should  be  late?" 


CHAPTER  III 

DENT  thought  it  more  than  likely  that  Evelyn 
would  be  late:  in  fact  so  nearly  certain  that 
he  cut  short  his  own  sleep,  breakfasted  at 
eight,  and  drove  round  to  Chelsea  to  fetch  him.  But 
even  these  firm  measures  were  vain,  for  he  learnt 
from  Fraser,  stiff  with  a  sense  of  grievance,  that  Eve- 
lyn had  left  the  flat  between  four  and  five  in  the 
morning  and  had  not  returned.  He  had  dragged 
Fraser  out  of  bed  to  pack  him  a  bag,  but  had  given 
no  hint  of  his  intended  movements,  though  when  Dent 
began  to  look  anxious  Fraser  condescended  to  smile. 
He  was  not  anxious.  Nor,  on  second  thoughts,  was 
George  Dent;  there  really  would  have  been  more 
cause  for  anxiety  if  Evelyn  had  done  anything  so 
uncharacteristic  as  to  catch  a  train. 

Dent  gave  a  philosophic  shrug.  It  would  have  been 
idle  to  wait,  and  after  keeping  a  look-out  for  Evelyn 
on  the  platform  till  the  last  minute  he  got  into  a  third 
class  smoking  carriage  and  travelled  up  very  comfort- 
ably by  himself.  It  was  barely  half  past  eleven  when 
he  carried  his  suit  case  out  of  Cambridge  station  to 
a  high  dogcart  which  stood  waiting  in  the  dusty  yard. 
The  tenant  of  the  cart  was  his  sister,  Kitty  Dent. 
She  was  all  in  grey,  from  her  tiny  scarfed  cap  to  her 
thick  gauntlets  and  fringed  suede  shoes :  a  small  lithe 
creature  of  a  deceptive  delicacy  of  aspect,  supple 
as  a  wand  of  steel,  yet  decked  with  the  freshness  and 
bloom  of  a  China  rosebud.  She  smiled  down  at  Dent 

34 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  35 

with  a  mild  brightness  of  interest  as  he  climbed  into 
the  seat  beside  her,  leaving  her  the  reins. 
"Well,  have  you  seen  Eve?" 

"Yes,  last  night,"  said  Dent  briefly.  "He  was  to 
have  travelled  with  me  but  he  didn't  turn  up  so  I 
came  on  ahead.  He'll  probably  follow  by  the  next 
train." 

"Did  you  arrange  with  him  to  travel  with  you?" 
"I  suggested  it.     Why  not?     It  was  the  natural 
thing  to  do." 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  was  going  to  meet  you?" 
"Did  I?"    The  hesitation  was  disingenuous.    "I  be- 
lieve so — yes." 

Kitty  gave  a  little  carefree  laugh.  "George,  didn't 
you  know  your  Evelyn  Charles  Evelyn  better  than 
that?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  Dent  said  more  cheerfully, 
as  if  pleased  with  Kitty's  way  of  taking  the  defection 
of  her  lover,  "it  did  occur  to  me  that  he  might  fight 
shy  of  that  arrangement.  But  I  didn't  think  it  would 
be  good  for  him  to  be  left  alone.  You  were  quite  right, 
old  girl,  he  was  very  much  cut  up — far  more  so  than 
I  expected.  I  suppose  he  was  fond  of  poor  Philip 
though  one  never  would  have  known  it.  After  all, 
your  brother's  your  brother.  It  can't  count  for  noth- 
ing to  have  been  stable  companions  for  fifteen  or 
twenty  years." 
"Besides.  .  .  ." 

"She's  pulling  a  bit,  isn't  she?    Shall  I  drive?" 
"Oh  no,  thanks.    Tell  me  more  about  Eve." 
"There  isn't  much  to  tell.    Besides  what,  were  you 
going  to  say?"     But  Kitty  intimated  that  the  end 
of  her  valuable  observation  had  escaped  her  memory. 


36  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

If  Dent  had  not  yet  found  out  that  Evelyn's  airy 
manner  covered  a  nature  sensitively  affectionate  and 
dangerously  amenable  to  pity,  it  was  not  for  her  to 
enlighten  him.  "He  was  playing  at  the  Queen's  Hall 
last  night/'  Dent  went  on.  "I've  just  read  a  notice  of 
it  in  the  Telegraph,  cracking  him  up  for  a  second 
Pachmann.  But  that  new  flat  of  his  must  run  him  into 
a  lot  of  expense."  Here  it  was  Dent's  turn  to  prac- 
tise economy,  for  he  did  not  think  fit  to  tell  Kitty 
that  Evelyn  had  owned  to  being  in  debt.  "Beautiful 
rooms  they  are  and  close  to  Grosvenor  Road,  which  is 
a  dear  neighbourhood ;  and  everything  very  well  done 
— a  nice  old  Adams  chimney-piece  in  carved  marble, 
and  furniture  to  suit.  Several  other  fellows  came  in 
with  him  after  the  concert,  chiefly  newspaper  men, 
and  queerlooking,  some  of  them,  but  nice  chaps.  Oh, 
and  Edmund  Meredith  was  there  too.  It  seems  he's  by 
way  of  being  rather  a  pal  of  Eve's,  but  he  didn't 
mix  well  with  the  writing  and  painting  crowd."  Dent 
would  have  been  cut  to  pieces  sooner  than  mention 
Sophy  to  his  sister.  "You  recollect  Meredith?  he 
asked  after  you.  Said  he  met  you  in  town." 
"Ye-es,  I  remember  Mr.  Meredith." 
"He  didn't  want  to  marry  you,  did  he?" 
"I  do  not  know,  dear,"  said  Kitty  laughing.  "I  did 
not  refuse  him  and  no  woman  ever  will.  He  would 
never  commit  himself  unless  he  were  sure  of  his 
ground.  So  you  couldn't  break  it  to  Eve  till  after 
these  men  were  gone?  How — how  did  he  take  it?" 
She  meant  "Tell  me  what  he  said  and  the  way  he  said 
it,  describe  him  feature  by  feature  and  the  clothes 
he  wore  and  the  chair  he  sat  in,"  but  she  knew  that 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  37 

Dent  could  not  satisfy  her  hunger  for  detail.  No  one 
ever  can. 

"He  didn't  say  anything  in  particular.  He  seems 
to  hate  it  all,  even  the  prospect  of  coming  in  for 
Temple  Evelyn,"  said  George  Dent,  watching  his  sis- 
ter's tiny  wrists  with  admiration.  "I'm  sure  she  is 
pulling  too  hard  for  you,  isn't  she? — I  thought  he'd 
like  that,  but  it  seems  only  to  weigh  on  him  and  de- 
press him.  He  talks  of  selling  it." 

"That  would  be  a  pity." 

"A  pity?  It  would  be  a  crying  scandal!  I  can't 
understand  how  he  could  dream  of  such  a  thing! 
Imagine  an  old  family  place  like  that  going  to  the 
hammer!  They've  been  at  Temple  Evelyn  longer 
than  we've  been  at  the  Manor  Farm.  But  of  course 
he'll  never  do  it  when  it  comes  to  the  point ;  Eve  starts 
a  lot  of  plans  that  never  come  to  anything." 

"Marrying  me,  for  example.  Did  he  refer  to  me  at 
all?" 

"Yes.  I  felt  rather  cross  with  him.  You  sent  him 
your  new  photograph,  didn't  you,  a  few  days  ago?" 

"Why— has  he  lost  it?" 

"No :  but  last  night  one  of  the  men  that  were  there 
— young  Yarborough,  the  painter  chap — found  it  on 
Eve's  writing  table  and  it  was  passed  round  for  ad- 
miration. I  don't  mean  that  any  of  the  men  said  any- 
thing you  wouldn't  have  liked:  and  Eve  apologised 
afterwards — said  he  left  it  out  by  mistake,  stuck  it 
up  there  and  forgot  about  it.  But  they  were  all 
so  free  and  easy  that  I  felt  rather  cross  with  him, 
and  I  collared  it  and  wouldn't  give  it  back  to  him. 
Here  it  is.  He'll  probably  come  to  you  for  it  now." 


38  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

Dent  took  it  out  of  his  pocket  and  laid  it  on  the 
cushion  between  him  and  Kitty.  "If  he  does  you  can 
give  it  to  him  if  you  like  but  I'd  rather  you  didn't. 
Eve  doesn't  mean  any  harm,  but  he's  a  bit  too  care- 
less." 

"Rather  careless,  certainly,  to  forget  about  it.  And 
it  was  such  a  pretty  photograph  too !"  Kitty  gave  a 
burlesque  sigh.  "I  fully  expected  him  to  sleep  with 
it  under  his  pillow.  Eve  is  the  most  unsatisfactory 
lover  I  ever  had  or  dreamed  of  having.  But  one  can't 
be  hard  on  him  now."  She  slanted  her  whip,  pointing 
sideways  up  the  long  low  slope  of  white  road  and 
woody  hill.  "How  would  you  like  it,  George,  to 
come  home  to  Temple  Evelyn  and  find  no  one  to  wel- 
come you  but  the  dead?" 

The  mare,  three  parts  thoroughbred  out  of  a 
Newmarket  stable,  dropped  to  a  walk  as  they  breasted 
the  last  steep  rise,  and  Dent  turned  in  his  seat  to 
glance  all  round  him.  Cambridge,  which  in  every 
direction  ends  abruptly  like  a  fortified  city,  was  al- 
ready four  or  five  miles  away  and  indistinct  under 
a  haze  of  smoke  in  the  faint  red  of  its  old  brickwork 
and  the  grey  of  turret  and  spire.  Elsewhere  the  sky 
was  autumn-blue  and  flecked  with  a  few  clouds  that 
lay  on  it  like  patches  of  snow  on  blue  ice,  so  pale 
it  was,  and  so  soft  they  were  with  their  light  and 
lilac  shadows.  And  under  this  opal  gleam,  out  of  the 
pale  Cambridgeshire  countryside  in  its  water-colour 
tinting — silver-gilt  of  stubble,  verdure  that  had  been 
sainfoin  or  clover,  purple-dark  of  fallow  land — their 
hilltop  rose  up  like  a  wave,  its  lift  of  a  couple  of 
hundred  feet  setting  them  high  over  the  plain :  carry- 
ing on  its  chalky  crest  a  march  of  beechwoods,  still 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  39 

summer-coloured,  and  the  bend  of  an  ivied  wall  of 
black  and  white  flint,  the  park  wall  of  Temple  Eve- 
lyn. The  house  was  hidden  among  the  trees;  but 
here  were  the  gates  of  graceful  ironwork  and  the 
square  stone  lodge :  and  as  the  mare  paused  to  breathe 
a  moment,  before  breaking  into  a  trot  again  for  the 
long,  slow  descent,  the  chiming  of  a  clock  in  the 
Temple  JSvelyn  stables  musically  told  them  it  was 
noon.  Methodical  Philip  Evelyn  had  wound  that 
clock  every  Monday  morning:  to-day  was  Friday: 
before  it  next  needed  winding,  the  hand  whose  im- 
pulse it  was  now  fulfilling  would  be  in  the  grave. 
Dent  shivered,  though  the  sun  was  hot. 

Then  the  mare,  young  and  fresh,  darted  away  down- 
hill again,  and  for  the  next  five  minutes  Kitty's  at- 
tention was  devoted  to  keeping  her  in  hand,  while  the 
stone  wall  chequered  with  tods  of  ivy  under  its  march 
of  beech  trees  flew  by  at  a  rapid  rate.  The  wall  ended 
where  the  garden  of  the  Manor  Farm  began:  a  low, 
square,  white  house  set  well  back  from  the  road 
across  a  shady  lawn,  the  chalk  downs  and  their  beech- 
wood  bosses  rising  up  behind,  the  farm-yard  and  its 
thatched  barns  and  honey-coloured  ricks  only  half 
hidden  behind  an  evergreen  oak.  They  turned  in  at  a 
white  gate  and  drew  up  accurately  within  an  inch  of 
the  steps,  and  Dent,  getting  down,  was  immediately 
enveloped  in  dogs — a  flood  of  dogs  which  poured  out 
of  the  hall  door  and  fell  over  one  another  in  emulous 
desire  to  lick  his  nose.  He  beat  them  off  and  turned 
to  help  his  sister,  taking  her  fingertips  while  Kitty 
came  to  earth  with  a  light  spring.  "A  little  tired,  ain't 
you,  Kitty?"  He  kissed  her  cheek,  a  demonstration 
neither  habitual  nor  rare.  "You've  been  on  the  go 


40  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

ever  since  Wednesday  evening.  Did  you  have  a  good 
night  last  night?" 

"So-so,"  said  Kitty  smiling  at  him.  "As  good  as  I 
wanted." 

"Terrible  thing,  poor  Philip's  death.  I  can  hardly 
believe  he's  gone." 

"I  caught  myself  this  morning  on  the  brink  of  tell- 
ing Annie  to  bake  some  more  gingerbreads,  in  case 
Mr.  Philip  came  in  to  tea." 

She  went  slowly  indoors  accompanied  by  her  own 
devoted  collie,  the  other  dogs  remaining  with  their 
master.  When  Dent  turned  to  follow  her,  after  linger- 
ing a  moment  on  the  steps  to  glance  round  him  with 
the  quiet  satisfaction  which  he  always  felt  on  return- 
ing to  his  own  roof  tree,  and  to  distribute  pats  at  ran- 
dom, he  noticed  with  a  faint  vexed  frown  that  the 
palms  of  her  gloves  were  cut  to  ribbons. 

Charles  Evelyn  could  not  go  up  to  Cambridge  by  the 
ten  o'clock  train  from  Liverpool  Street,  because  he 
had  previously  caught  the  eight  forty-five  from  King's 
Cross.  While  Kitty  and  George  Dent  were  driving 
from  the  station,  he  had  already  reached  Temple  Eve- 
lyn on  foot,  covering  four  miles  of  dusty  road  with 
the  cool  unhurried  stride  learnt  in  a  country  boy- 
hood. Where  the  long  slope  began  to  rise  towards  the 
hills,  by  Charles  Burnage's  lonely  inn  crouched  like 
a  grey  cat  under  its  tall  sign  and  sheltering  sycomore, 
he  got  over  a  gate  and  struck  into  a  footpath  across 
the  fields — which  were  now  his  own,  though  he  won- 
dered if  there  would  be  enough  money  to  pay  Philip's 
death  duties  without  selling  some  of  the  land. 

The  park  wall  was  too  high  to  be  vaulted.     But 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  41 

here  in  a  bend  of  it  was  the  old  garden  gate,  its  key 
hanging  on  a  nail  which  only  the  initiate  could  find. 
How  often  had  Evelyn  let  himself  out  that  way  in 
his  boyhood,  when  he  was  in  such  a  rage  with  Philip 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  stay  within  earshot !  Many 
a  fit  of  fiery  temper  he  had  walked  off  along  the  Roman 
Road  over  the  tops  of  the  hills,  where  flax  and  scabious 
blossomed  in  the  sere  September  grass.  .  .  .  And  so 
across  a  belt  of  beechwood,  and  brushing  through  a 
young  quickset  hedge  which  Philip  would  have  re- 
spected, into  sight  of  the  house,  large,  and  loosely 
built,  and  dignified,  if  a  little  faded  by  wind  and 
weather :  a  square  Georgian  house  in  stucco  like  the 
farm  below,  with  a  Georgian  portico  and  suavely 
moulded  bays.  It  gave  Evelyn  a  shock  to  find  the 
blinds  drawn  at  every  window.  But  of  course  it 
must  be  so !  Temple  Evelyn  was  dead  like  its  master, 
though  the  garden  was  still  so  vigorously  and  richly 
alive. 

How  they  shone,  the  scarlet  geraniums  in  their 
stone  urns  on  the  lawn !  How  gay  the  borders  were 
with  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks  and  the  late  pink 
Caroline  roses!  It  was  exquisitely  kept  up,  not  a 
bent  nor  a  dandelion  on  the  turf  nor  a  weed  in  the 
brilliantly  patterned  carpet  flowerbeds;  Philip  had 
been  a  careful  householder,  and  Button's  catalogues 
were  the  one  lure  he  never  could  resist.  But  it  wras 
not  exactly  habitable.  It  was  for  show.  Dearer  to 
Evelyn  were  the  oldfashioned  grounds  at  the  back 
of  the  house  with  their  cut-and-come-again  luxuriance. 
Here  in  front,  within  range  of  the  drive,  the  edict 
"Thou  shalt  not  pick"  had  always  been  enforced  with 
all  the  rigour  of  nursery  law.  As  late  as  seventeen 


42  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

he  remembered  to  have  received  half  a  dozen  sting- 
ing cuts  across  the  palm  from  his  mother's  ruler,  for 
being  caught  redhanded,  or  rather  lilac-handed,  with 
a  bunch  of  heliotrope  stolen  for  Kitty  Dent. 

And  suddenly  in  the  remembrance  of  old  obligations 
Evelyn  realised  that  he  had  no  business  to  be  com- 
ing home  on  foot  with  the  dust  of  the  road  on  his 
boots.  He  ought  to  have  made  a  grave  ceremonial 
entrance,  driving  in  through  the  lodge  gates,  the  sound 
of  wheels  bringing  the  servants  out  to  meet  him  with 
suitably  distressed  expressions;  and  then  it  would 
have  been  his  duty  to  shake  hands  with  old  Malyon 
the  butler,  and  attend  to  his  narrative  of  the  sad  fa- 
tality, leading  up  to  a  "This  way,  sir,"  and  the  fling- 
ing open  of  a  locked  door.  .  .  .  But  he  could  not,  no, 
he  could  not  face  that  locked  door  and  Philip's  dead 
face  under  the  aegis  of  old  Malyon.  An  adept  at  not 
doing  his  duty,  Evelyn  sneaked  back  into  the  beech- 
wood  and  slipped  along  to  the  library,  which  faced 
north  and  could  not  be  seen  from  either  drive  or  gar- 
dens. Here  if  anywhere  he  might  find  an  open  win- 
dow, and  this  if  any  room  in  the  great  house  was  his 
own.  He  had  never  felt  more  than  a  guest's  right  in 
his  bedroom,  very  large,  stiffly  furnished  with  immense 
pieces  of  mahogany  furniture,  and  shared  with  Philip 
for  the  first  twelve  years  of  his  life. 

Yes,  the  library  window  was  open,  and  thankfully 
he  flung  his  leg  over  the  sill  and  got  in  as  he  had  done 
hundreds  of  times  in  his  boyhood,  when  on  his  way 
back  from  some  expedition  of  which  his  mother  or 
Philip  would  not  have  approved.  The  shadow  of  his 
boyish  sense  of  guilt  and  fear  fell  on  him  now.  He  had 
always  disliked  and  dreaded  scoldings,  though  they 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  43 

had  never  deterred  him.  A  caning  broke  no  bones, 
but  one  of  his  mother's  religious  lectures  would  find 
out  every  tender  spot  in  him,  not  because  she  did  not 
understand  him  but  because  she  understood  him  too 
well.  Ah  well !  neither  his  mother  nor  Philip  would 
ever  scold  him  again.  For  Philip  after  their  mother's 
death  had  been  very  nearly  as  bad.  How  well  Eve- 
lyn remembered  his  last  interview  with  his  brother — 
one  of  those  irritating,  disagreeable  interviews  of 
which  Temple  Evelyn  had  seen  so  many !  Philip  had 
refused  to  increase  his  allowance,  and  they  had  parted, 
outwardly  civil,  inwardly  exasperated,  Philip  raging 
against  his  extravagance,  Evelyn  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders over  Philip's  nearness :  and  certainly  Philip  was 
near:  he  would  spend  on  the  upkeep  of  Temple  Eve- 
lyn but  on  nothing  else,  and  when  he  went  about  in 
his  shabby  corduroy  breeches,  and  a  tweed  coat  with 
a  hole  in  the  elbow,  strangers  occasionally  took  him 
for  a  gamekeeper.  Still  one  had  to  be  thick-skinned 
to  make  that  mistake.  All  the  Evelyns  had  looks, 
but  Philip  was  the  most  goodlooking  of  two  genera- 
ations:  taller  than  his  brother,  and  dark  as  a  Span- 
iard, with  a  princely  way  of  bearing  himself  that 
drew  men's  eyes  to  him  in  great  cities.  And  now  he 
was  dead,  and  had  left  the  tradition  of  Temple  Eve- 
lyn to  Charles  Evelyn's  careless  musicianly  hands. 

It  was  still  early,  and  Evelyn  was  supposed  to  be 
coming  by  the  later  train  with  Dent,  and  theoreti- 
cally could  not  be  here  for  another  half  hour.  He 
flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  shut  his  eyes,  but  he 
was  too  tired  to  sleep — almost  too  tired  to  know  that 
he  was  tired.  He  had  had  a  heavy  strain  the  day 
before;  never  since  entering  on  his  musical  career 


44  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

had  he  confessed  to  feeling  shy  before  an  audience, 
but  the  truth  was  that  he  turned  horribly  nervous 
every  time  he  had  to  go  on  a  platform,  and  the  fact 
that  no  professional  pianist  nowadays  can  afford  to 
put  up  a  sheet  of  music  before  him  made  matters 
worse.  Not  that  Evelyn  ever  looked  at  the  notes  he 
was  playing — still  he  would  have  liked  to  know  they 
were  there,  even  as  there  are  many  middle-aged  clergy- 
men who  like  to  have  a  Prayer-Book  open  on  the 
desk  before  they  begin  on  "Dearly  beloved  brethren" 
or  even  the  Lord's  Prayer.  Once  launched  Evelyn  was 
safe  and  could  have  played  the  clock  round  without 
glancing  at  a  printed  page,  but  every  time  he  under- 
took an  important  engagement  he  had  to  go  through 
twenty -four  hours  of  preliminary  anguish  in  the  cer- 
tainty that  this  time  when  he  sat  down  to  the  piano 
every  note  he  had  ever  played  would  go  out  of  his 
head.  Such  a  panic  is  a  wearing  strain.  To  be 
encored  half  a  dozen  times  by  a  packed  Queen's  Hall 
audience  is  a  strain  too  though  of  a  pleasanter  nature, 
for  after  the  flame  of  excitement  has  died  down  one 
is  left  feeling  chilly  and  depressed.  And  then  Philip's 
death.  ...  It  was  no  wonder  Evelyn  was  tired. 

And  giving  himself  up  to  daydreams  he  lost  him- 
self in  sensuously  vivid  memories  of  childhood  and 
youth,  golden  moments,  a  touch,  a  scent,  a  phrase  of 
music,  pink  roses  on  a  blue  sky,  the  silken  chill  of 
running  water,  a  stolen  night  on  the  grass  of  the 
Roman  Road — but  not  of  George  Dent  or  the  servants 
or  the  lawyer  or  the  thousand  and  one  duties  that 
patiently  awaited  his  attention.  .  .  . 

"Good  morning,  Eve,  I  hoped  I  might  find  you 
here." 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  45 

"Kitty !"  exclaimed  Evelyn,  starting  up  and  rubbing 
his  eyes.  Miss  Dent  dropped  her  hands  on  the  win- 
dow sill  and  swung  herself  in  over  it  with  the  easy  dex- 
terity of  a  boy.  Seen  on  her  feet  she  was  a  small 
creature,  her  head  not  quite  on  the  level  of  Evelyn's 
shoulder,  though  Evelyn  was  no  more  than  of  middle 
height.  She  had  taken  off  her  cap,  and  into  the  dark 
room,  lined  with  books  from  ceiling  to  floor,  her  thick 
fine  hair  of  a  shade  that  Evelyn  called  silvergilt 
brought  a  spark  or  two  of  sunshine.  She  had  not 
seen  Evelyn  for  a  twelvemonth,  but  without  delay 
or  confusion  she  came  to  him  and  held  up  her  cheek 
for  a  kiss.  Few  men  would  have  disdained  this  privi- 
lege. Her  face  and  throat  were  milkwhite,  except 
where  they  were  dyed  with  the  carnation  stain  of 
perfect  health,  as  evenly  and  delicately  ingrained  as 
the  pink  shading  in  a  flower  petal.  But  Evelyn  kissed 
her  lightly  and  almost  like  a  brother.  "O  Kitty,  you're 
as  clever  as  ever  and  ten  times  prettier!  How  on 
earth  did  you  guess  where  I  was?"  Kitty  gave  him  a 
fleeting  smile  and  silently  drew  herself  out  of  his  light 
clasp.  "Come  and  sit  on  my  knee,"  said  Evelyn,  hold- 
ing out  his  arms  to  her.  But  she  shook  her  head 
and  subsided  into  a  chair  opposite — an  immense  arm- 
chair with  comfortably  broken  springs.  "But,  Kitty- 
wee,  have  you  come  up  alone?  Isn't  George  back?" 

"George  is  back,  and  has  gone  out  to  see  how  the 
young  pigs  have  got  on  since  he  went  away.  No,  you 
need  not  apologise  for  throwing  him  over;  it  occurred 
to  him  afterwards  that  you  wouldn't  care  to  travel 
up  with  him  and  be  met  en  famille.  He  was  really 
rather  glad  because  he  doesn't  like  the  back  seat  in 
the  dogcart." 


46  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

"But  it  wasn't  that  at  all,"  said  Evelyn  discon- 
certed. "It  simply  was  that  I  suddenly  remem- 
bered—" 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know." 

" — that  I  couldn't  go  off  without  seeing  Dimmie. 
Now  you  see  you  don't  know,  and  there  was  a  real 
reason.  I  had  to  cut  round  in  a  taxi  and  it  took  me 
half  an  hour  to  get  him  out  of  bed." 

"Yes,  darling,  there  always  is  a  real  reason.  This 
is  quite  a  good  one.  Who  is  Dimmie  ?" 

"Dimsdale  Smith,  my — my  impresario" 

"So,  as  you  were  too  late  to  catch  the  ten  o'clock, 
you  caught  the  eight  forty-five.  It  is  a  thing  that 
might  happen  to  anyone;  except  of  course  that  very 
few  people  have  an  impresario.  No,  now  I  won't  tease 
you  any  more.  Dearest  Eve,  how  tired  your  eyes  look ! 
But  how  little  you've  changed! — how  little  you  ever 
change,  considering  that  you've  grown  into  a  famous 
man  since  I  saw  you  last !  Yes,  really :  a  twelvemonth 
ago  you  were  in  the  second  flight  and  now  you're  in  the 
first.  I  was  sorry  you  had  to  be  away  when  I  was 
in  London,  but  that  Continental  tour  did  great  things 
for  you.  Did  you  bring  any  luggage  or  any  other 
clothes  besides  what  you  have  on?"  Evelyn  had  left 
his  bag  at  the  station.  "We  must  tell  Malyon  to  send 
for  it.  Have  you  seen  him  yet?" 

"Not  yet.    I  haven't  been  here  long." 

"Oh  well,  you  must.  And  you  will  have  to  arrange 
about  the  registration  and  the  funeral.  There  are  a 
heap  of  things  to  be  done."  It  was  not  for  want  of 
imagination  or  sympathy  that  Kitty  Dent  had  set  her- 
self to  reduce  the  tragedy  of  death  to  terms  of  the 
commonplace.  "You  see  George  and  I  are  up  in  all 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  47 

these  tiresome  practical  details  because  it  isn't  so 
very  long  since  Father  died.  There  must  be  an  in- 
quest, Dr.  Leigh  says.  Purely  formal,  of  course,  still 
you  will  have  to  see  the  police  about  it.  But  first 
you  had  better  see  Philip  himself."  She  rose.  "Come, 
and  I'll  take  you  to  him." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  his  own  room."  She  smiled  at  Evelyn,  who  was 
inclined  to  hang  back.  "Are  you  frightened,  Eve? 
I'm  not,  and  you  won't  be  when  you've  seen  him.  Some- 
times death  is  terrifying,  but  Philip  only  looks  as  if 
he  were  asleep.  Still  there's  always  a  strangeness. 
Let's  hold  hands."  And  with  her  small  hand,  so  full 
of  life,  she  drew  him  on  half  against  his  will  into  the 
shuttered  hall,  where  only  a  few  pin-size  rays  of  au- 
tumn sunshine,  like  burning  wires,  shot  aslant  through 
a  green  twilight:  up  a  wide  staircase  under  darkly 
blinded  windows :  to  the  door  of  Philip's  room. 

It  was  locked,  and  when  Kitty  unlocked  it  Evelyn's 
surprise  and  relief  were  so  great  that  he  forgot  to  be 
frightened.  Philip's  room  faced  due  south.  It  was 
very  large,  and  lit  by  three  tall  croisee  windows,  and 
these  had  all  been  thrown  wide  open  on  a  flowery  bal- 
cony. Across  worn  carpet  and  dark  carved  furniture 
a  mellow  glow  of  September  sunshine  came  streaming 
in,  and  with  it  a  scent  of  heliotrope  and  petunia  and 
drifted  leaves  from  the  garden  and  from  all  the  blue 
and  brown  distance  of  beechwood  and  valley.  In  this 
golden  haze  candles  were  burning,  tall  wax  candles  in 
tall  silver  candlesticks,  two  at  the  head  and  two  at  the 
feet  of  the  dark  carved  bed ;  and  between  them  Philip 
Evelyn  lay  at  ease,  dark  and  stately,  a  fine  linen 
sheet  drawn  up  to  his  breast,  a  sheaf  of  brown  and 


48  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

red  and  golden  chrysanthemums  strewn  round  his 
head  and  over  his  serenely  folded  hands. 

"Who  put  the  flowers  and  lit  the  candles?"  Evelyn 
asked  after  a  long  silence. 

"I  did." 

"Naturally.  Anyone  but  you  would  have  put  white 
flowers." 

"Philip  wasn't  a  child,"  said  Kitty.  Closing  the 
door  behind  her,  she  stole  to  the  bedside  and  knelt 
down,  and  after  a  moment  of  shyness  Evelyn  followed 
her.  There  was  not  the  vestige  of  a  prayer  in  his  mind. 
Capricious  and  even  grotesque  fancies  flitted  through 
it,  the  most  persistent,  and  one  that  made  his  blood 
run  cold,  an  idea  that  his  brother  was  still  breathing : 
he  could  have  sworn  the  sculptured  lips  quivered,  and 
the  chest,  partly  uncovered,  rose  and  fell  in  a  faint 
respiration.  But  it  was  not  so,  and  he  knew  it:  for 
Philip  Evelyn  the  end  had  come. 

And  gradually,  when  Kitty  in  her  cool  monotone 
began  to  murmur  a  Latin  prayer  for  the  dead,  he  felt 
calmer,  as  if  soothed  by  being  brought  into  communion 
with  so  many  others  who  had  suffered  the  same  ache 
of  pity  and  irremediable  regret.  Locum  refrigerii, 
lucis,  et  pads.  .  .  truth  or  fable — and  by  Philip  Eve- 
lyn, born  a  Conservative  and  a  churchman,  it  had 
never  been  called  in  question — this  fellowship  of 
prayer  at  least  took  from  death  the  terror  of  its  lone- 
liness. 

"Kitty,"  said  Evelyn  under  his  breath,  "I  wish  I 
cared  more.  If  I  did  I  shouldn't  care  so  much."  He 
rose  to  his  feet  and  slowly  bent  to  touch  the  waxen 
forehead  with  his  lips.  "Poor  old  Phil !  Bough  luck, 
isn't  it?— oh,  how  cold!" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  49 

"I  expect  you  care  as  much  as  Philip  would  have  if 
it  had  been  you,"  said  Kitty  drily.  She  too  rose  from 
her  knees,  with  a  certain  briskness  of  manner.  "Don't 
let's  stay  any  longer  now,  Eve.  This  that's  left  is 
not  Philip."  She  lingered  to  draw  the  sheet  an  inch  or 
so  higher,  taking  care  to  touch  the  chill  breast  without 
shrinking,  and  then,  slipping  her  arm  into  Evelyn's, 
made  him  go  out  of  the  room  before  her.  The  living 
are  of  greater  importance  than  the  dead,  and  Kitty 
Dent  had  not  engaged  herself  to  marry  an  Evelyn 
without  coming  to  understand  an  Evelyn  tempera- 
ment. She  breathed  more  freely  when  they  were  safe 
outside  and  the  door  was  locked  once  more. 

"Eve,  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise.  Will 
you?" 

"If  I  can." 

"Not  to  go  into  Philip's  room  again."  Evelyn 
started.  "There's  no  need.  I  watched  with  him  all 
last  night—" 

"You  did  what?" 

"I  kept  watch  over  him.  What  is  there  in  that  to 
surprise  you?  Aren't  we  his  oldest  friends?  George 
had  to  be  away  and  there  was  no  one  else.  I  never 
left  him  from  the  time  George  went  till  I  had  to  drive 
in  to  the  station  to  meet  you.  Afraid !  no,  why  should 
I  be  afraid?  I  never  can  understand  that  terror  of 
death,  which  is  the  one  thing  that's  certain  to  befall 
every  one  of  us.  I  was  glad  to  be  with  him ;  it's  so 
quiet  at  night,  and  one  can  think  such  long  thoughts 
and  see  all  one's  life  so  clearly  when  there  are  no 
interruptions.  But,  dearest,  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
in  without  me.  I've  a  fancy  that  I  should  like  to 


50  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

have  been  with  you  the  last  time  you  saw  him.  Will 
you  promise?" 

"For  no  reason?" 

"For  a  whim." 

Evelyn  thought  it  a  strange  whim.  But  he  could 
not  refuse  her ;  and  when  night  came,  though  it  never 
crossed  his  mind  that  Kitty  had  deliberately  protected 
him  from  himself,  he  was  glad  that  her  whim  defended 
him  from  an  impulse  to  go  in  and  find  out  if  Nature's 
inexorable  law  had  worked  any  change  as  yet  in  Philip 
Evelyn's  carven  beauty. 


CHAPTER  IV 

0  far  as  I  can  see,"  Charles  Evelyn  was  saying 
with  his  good-humoured  smile  a  fortnight  later, 
"when  the  death  duties  and  Hanmer's  bill  are 
paid,  and  when  I've  cleared  off  my  own  debts,  I  shall 
have  about  £300  a  year  to  live  on.  I  don't  see  myself 
at  thirty-five  or  so  riding  to  hounds  and  giving  notable 
decisions  on  the  Bench  at  Quarter  Sessions,  but  even 
if  I  were  cut  out  for  the  career  of  a  country  gentleman 
it  would  be  difficult  to  make  ends  meet.  Philip  did 
it.  But  a  good  slice  of  his  money  has  gone  to  line  the 
pockets  of  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  And 
besides  I'm  not  Philip." 

"The  last  argument  of  the  learned  counsel,"  said 
Kitty  Dent,  "appears  to  me  to  be  conclusive." 

Attired  in  sympathetic  mourning,  a  black  and  grey 
striped  voile  dress  and  the  wide  round  hat  of  her  pic- 
ture scarfed  in  black,  she  was  sitting  on  the  turf  in  the 
rear  garden  of  Temple  Evelyn,  while  its  master,  in 
white  flannels  and  a  straw  with  a  Queens'  ribbon  on  it, 
lounged  at  her  feet.  Evelyn  was  in  no  mourning  at  all, 
but  his  defiance  of  convention  was  tranquilly  innocent. 
Fraser  was  still  in  London,  and  left  to  himself  it 
did  not  occur  to  Evelyn  to  make  any  change  in  his 
dress  or  even  wear  a,  black  band  on  his  arm.  George 
Dent  had  entreated  Kitty  to  give  him  a  tactful  hint — 
"Why  can't  he  do  as  other  people  do?"— but  Kitty  had 
only  laughed  and  put  him  by. 

"What  shall  you  do— let  the  place?" 

51 


52  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

"Or  sell  it.  I  shouldn't  get  much  for  it  if  I  let  it. 
The  shooting  isn't  good,  and  the  house  is  oldfashioned 
and  rather  inconvenient.  Two  bathrooms  and  twenty 
bedrooms!  But  a  man  who  wanted  a  background 
might  like  to  buy  it  and  put  it  into  repair.  You  can't 
deny  that  it  has  atmosphere.  And  they  say  people 
will  pay  any  amount  for  atmosphere  nowadays,  espe- 
cially the — the  Johnnies  that  don't  inherit  it;  I'd 
rather  have  fresh  air  myself." 

"Munitions?" 

"Or  margarine.  Not  but  what  I'd  rather  keep  it 
in  our  own  class,"  Evelyn  added,  with  a  shade  of 
unintentional  arrogance  which  brought  her  familiar 
teasing  smile  to  Kitty's  lips.  But  this  time  the  joke 
was  mainly  against  herself.  "Our  class?"  George 
Dent  with  his  uncompromising  stern  humility  had 
never  let  her  forget  that  she  was  not  by  birth  of 
Evelyn's  class.  "Far  rather.  And  it  might  be  done," 
Evelyn  pursued  the  devious  path  of  speculation. 
"There's  Edmund  Meredith  now,  he's  looking  out  for  a 
house  within  an  hour  or  so  of  town :  you  recollect 
Meredith?  I  should  rather  like  to  do  a  deal  with  him, 
it's  so  much  nicer  dealing  with  a  man  you  know,  that 
you  can  be  sure  won't  try  to  cheat  you.  It's  an  econ- 
omy too,  because  then  you  aren't  let  in  for  an  agent's 
five  per  cent  or  a  pestilent  lawyer's  bill.  Lawyers 
simply  eat  into  money.  Why,  it  costs  you  sixpence  to 
stamp  an  agreement!" 

"Whereas  if  you  let  it  to  Mr.  Meredith  you  could 
dispense  with  an  agreement.  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Kitty, 
reflective.  "That  would  be  a  wonderful  economy. 
All  you  would  need  would  be  half  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  'Dear  Meredith,  You  can  have  Temple  Evelyn 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  53 

for  £500.  Ever  yours,  E.  C.  E.— P.  S.  But  I  don't 
want  to  sell  the  furniture.'  Or  would  you  throw  the 
furniture  in?" 

"Flea!" 

"Me  flea?    Why?" 

"Because  you're  small  and  irritating.  I'd  throw  you 
in  for  two  pins — if  I  dared  indulge  the  hope  that  Mere- 
dith would  take  you."  He  discerned  a  silent  sparkle 
in  Kitty's  eyes.  "Hallo!  what's  this?  Kitty,  you 
don't  mean  to  tell  me — ?" 

It  was  not  Kitty's  way  to  tell  tales  out  of  school. 
She  turned  her  head  to  look  up  at  the  house,  which 
smiled  down  at  them  in  the  misty  brightness  of  a 
September  morning,  white  and  friendly  in  its  coat  of 
stucco,  three  storeys  and  a  pillared  Georgian  prome- 
nade between  dark  belts  of  beechwood.  All  along 
it  there  stretched  a  flight  of  steps,  wide  and  shallow, 
and  at  either  end  a  pair  of  carved  urns  overflowed 
in  a  stream  of  nasturtiums,  jade  and  brick-red  and 
lemon-yellow,  blackish-red  and  peach-colour,  a  tangle 
of  leaf  and  flower  from  stone  to  stone  and  on  over 
the  turf.  Such  was  Temple  Evelyn  in  the  morning 
sun.  The  other  way,  down  the  slope  of  the  lawn  they 
were  sitting  on,  blue  and  yellow  butterflies  hovered 
against  an  immense  wall  of  yew,  cut  into  arches  under 
which  one  could  see  the  tops  of  an  orchard  gleaming 
with  half-ripe  apples.  And  all  round,  protected  by 
shrubberies  of  beech  and  ilex  and  spring-coloured 
acacia,  there  were  beds  full  of  summer  flowers,  the 
sort  of  flowers  that  can  be  picked  from  one  year's  end 
to  another:  there  was  not  a  month,  there  was  scarcely 
a  day  in  the  hardest  winter  when  one  could  not  find 
blooms  in  those  high  sheltered  borders,  violets  in 


54  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

woody  walks,  late  rosebuds  tinder  a  fending  box  grove, 
snowdrops  that  pricked  up  in  January,  geraniums 
that  struggled  on  till  December. 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  sell  it.  Do  you  know,  Eve, 
you're  curiously  wanting  in  the  sense  of  association? 
Most  men  would  sooner  cut  off  their  right  hands  than 
give  up  a  place  like  Temple  Evelyn,  and  I'm  not  sure 
but  what  when  it  was  too  late  you  would  be  sorry 
yourself.  Of  course  you  can't  live  in  it  now.  You 
have  your  profession,  you'll  be  in  London  or  on  the 
Continent  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  to  come.  But 
you'll  grow  old  one  day,  even  you,  and  then  you'll  want 
to  rest.  Besides,  a  place  like  Temple  Evelyn  isn't 
yours  alone.  It  belongs  to  those  that  are  gone  before 
and  that  will  come  after.  You're  only  a  link  in  a 
chain." 

"Oh,  my  children,  if  I  ever  have  any,  will  have  to 
shift  for  themselves,"  said  Evelyn  carelessly. 

Kitty,  like  her  brother,  could  preserve  silence.  She 
did  so  in  answer  to  this  observation — which,  in  the 
circumstances,  was  not  exactly  felicitous — with  the 
result  that  it  lingered  in  the  air  and  presently  came 
back  to  Evelyn  by  a  different  avenue.  He  glanced 
sidelong  at  her  and  sat  up,  his  arms  round  his  knees. 
"Kitty,  what  size  do  you  take  in  gloves?  Twos?  Or 
is  that  shoes?  You  haven't  said  good  morning  to  me 
yet.  You  turned  up  when  I  was  knee-deep  in  ac- 
counts and  I  couldn't  attend  to  you  properly,  but  now 
I  can,  and  I  suggest  that  you  should  say  good  morn- 
ing." 

"Dear  Eve,  the  servants  can  see  us  from  the  win- 
dows!" 

"They  have  seen  us  before.     Considering  that  we 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  55 

began  it  when  we  were  in  long  clothes,  they  must  be 
inured  to  envy  by  now."  He  wound  his  arm  round 
her  waist  and  touched  with  his  lips  her  cheek  as  soft  as 
a  flower,  which  was  all  she  permitted  him.  "Miser !" 
said  Evelyn  in  her  ear. 

"Evelyn :  if  I  ask  you  a  question,  will  you  answer 
it?" 

"Certainly."  He  relapsed  on  the  turf,  stretching 
himself  indolently  at  full  length,  one  arm  thrown 
over  Kitty's  knee.  "The  record  of  my  past  life  is 
open  to  your  inspection.  It  happens  to  be  depress- 
ingly  blameless — I  do  hope  you  won't  mind !" 

"It  happens  to  be  your  future  that  interests  me," 
said  Kitty  drily,  "considerably  more  than  your  past. 
I  want  you  to  be  perfectly  frank,  and,  if  you  can, 
straightforward.  No,  you  are  not:  not  as  a  rule. 
You  mean  well,  but  you  live  in  a  mist  and  I  want 
you  to  come  out  of  it.  Here's  my  question,  and  please 
take  time  over  it :  do  you  or  don't  you  want  to  marry 
me?" 

It  was  not  what  Evelyn  had  anticipated.  He  sat 
up  again  as  if  galvanised.  "Kitty!  what  an  extraor- 
dinarily maladroit  lover  I  must  be!" 

"Evasion  No.  1,"  said  Kitty,  laughing. 

"Evasion — ?  I  don't  follow.  Haven't  we  been  for- 
mally engaged  with  bell,  book,  and  candle  for  the  last 
eighteen  months,  and  haven't  we  both  of  us  known 
for  the  last  eighteen  years  or  so  that  we  were  going 
to  marry  each  other  when  we  grew  up?  Even  you 
would  hardly  have  the  impudence  to  throw  me  over 
at  this  time  of  day,  I  should  hope!" 

"Evasion  No.  2." 

"Kitty!  is  there  any  other  fellow  in  the  field?" 


56  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

"I  had  better  say  it  again,"  said  Kitty  with  a  little 
resigned  shrug,  "because  by  now  you  must  have  for- 
gotten what  it  was.  Do  you — or  don't  you — want  to 
marry  me?" 

"Of  course  I  do!" 

"I  said  you  were  to  take  time  to  think  it  over." 

"How  long  should  I  take  if  you  asked  me  whether 
the  sun  rises  in  the  East?  Of  course  I  want  you  to 
marry  me!  Not  that  I'm  half  such  a  brilliant  match 
as  you  deserve ;  if  you  knew  your  own  value  you  would 
throw  me  over  and  stand  out  for  a  duke,  or  a  motor 
char-a-bancs  proprietor — I  believe  they're  financially 
a  sounder  proposition  nowadays.  But  I  shan't  offer 
to  release  you  from  your  plighted  troth.  Try  to  cut 
and  run,  Kitty,  and  see  how  fast  I'll  hold  you." 

"Rather  loose,  to  be  candid,"  said  Miss  Dent,  exam- 
ining her  lover  with  her  faintly  derisive  smile.  "I'm 
not  jealous,  and  I  certainly  am  not  exacting,  but  it  is  a 
fact  that  since  we  parted  in  town  last  October  I've 
written  to  you  every  week,  and  I've  only  heard  back 
eight  or  ten  times  in  reply.  It  doesn't  signify,  I 
don't  live  for  your  letters,  but  I  should  like  to  know 
exactly  how  we  stand.  You  say  we're  betrothed  with 
bell,  book,  and  candle,  but  do  your  friends  in  London 
know  you're  engaged  to  me?" 

Evelyn  had  not  the  slightest  idea. 

"And  if  I  gave  you  a  ring  you  would  drop  it  when 
you  washed  your  hands,  or  give  it  to  a  waitress  for  a 
tip  next  time  you  happened  to  leave  your  pocketbook 
at  home.  It  is  a  most  amusing  experience  being  en- 
gaged to  you,  Eve.  But  don't  apologise,  we  never  were 
on  sentimental  terms,  were  we?  Even  when  you  asked 
me  to  marry  you  it  was  an  extremely  cool,  quid  pro 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  57 

quo  sort  of  bargain — to  keep  George  quiet,  and  to  keep 
Philip  quiet,  and  because  so  far  we  had  neither  of  us 
seen  anyone  we  liked  better.  And,  yes,"  she  touched 
his  arm  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  "I  do  believe  you 
would  hang  on  to  me  if  I  tried  to  run.  I've  grown 
into  a  habit,  a  bit  of  background,  like  an  old  pipe  or 
an  old  coat,  and  as  you're  a  born  Conservative,  like 
Philip,  it  would  fidget  you  to  lose  me.  You  would  put 
your  hand  out  for  me  and  not  find  me  and  say  'Hallo, 
Where's  Kitty  gone?  Bother,  I  must  have  dropped 
her!'" 

"Kitty,"  said  Evelyn,  exploding,  "you  are  an  idiot !" 

"I  think  so  too,  darling,"  said  Miss  Dent  sweetly. 
"Girls  often  are.  But  never  mind,  I  shall  pay  my 
own  bills:  I'm  no  one's  enemy  but  my  own."  Faint 
and  far  beyond  beechwood  and  apple  orchard,  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  spot  where  the  vague  blue  of  the 
sky  melted  into  a  blue  ring  of  plain.  "So  you  propose 
to  sell  Temple  Evelyn?  How  cross  George  will  be! 
He'll  implore  me  to  use  my  womanly  influence.  Let 
us  hope  no  one  will  buy  it.  Dear  old  place !  but  you 
never  loved  it  as  I  do." 

"I  was  not  happy  here,"  said  Evelyn  briefly. 

He  was  glad  to  follow  Kitty's  fresh  lead;  she  had 
been  serious  or  half  serious  under  her  raillery,  and 
when  that  happened  (which  was  very  rarely)  she  fret- 
ted him  with  a  demand — no,  not  a  demand:  never 
was  any  woman  less  exacting:  but  at  all  events  she 
fretted  him  and  he  winced  under  an  indefinable 
strain.  "It'll  sell,"  he  said.  "It  could  soon  be  made 
habitable  if  one  spent  four  or  five  thousand  on  it. 
And  some  of  the  New  Rich  would  buy  it  for  the  Hunt- 
ing Tower  alone.  It  isn't  every  day  that  a  genuine 


58  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

fourteenth  century  hunting  lodge  comes  into  the  mar- 
ket. Did  you  know  Henry  V  slept  there?  That  beats 
Queen  Bess.  Besides,  he  really  did.  George  and  I 
came  across  a  record  of  it  in  the  strongroom  the  other 
day,  in  Chancery  hand  that  I  couldn't  read  a  word  of, 
but  George  made  out  a  bit  of  it  and  it  turned  out  to 
be  bills  for  the  Royal  party,  item  one  dozen  plovers 
and  a  pipe  of  Malmsey.  Tell  you  what,  let's  go  and 
look  at  it  now."  He  sprang  up  in  his  quick  vagabond 
way  and  offered  a  hand  to  Kitty.  "I  haven't  been  in 
since  I  was  ten,  when  I  swarmed  up  the  ivy  and 
crawled  through  a  window.  But  we  still  have  the 
original  key,  if  you  can  call  it  a  key — it's  more  like 
a  bent  skewer.  Wait  while  I  fetch  it." 

Kitty  was  inured  to  Evelyn's  unexpected  sallies. 
Docile,  she  strolled  on  under  the  clipped  yew  arches, 
down  through  the  orchard  where  windfallen  apples 
dotted  the  turf  with  yellow  gleams,  and  up  again  into 
a  slope  of  wood.  Here  the  trees  grew  thick  and  the 
ways  were  dark  and  tangled.  Blackberry  brambles 
caught  at  her  skirt,  every  glade  was  over-run  with 
clematis  and  briony,  in  every  ditch  the  lords-and- 
ladies  drew  their  pale  cowls  over  their  red  spikes 
of  poisonberry ;  and  the  stems  of  the  trees  and  bushes 
were  powdered  with  a  dry  green  mould,  which  gave 
to  every  vista  a  singular  woodland  glow.  But  Kitty 
was  not  afraid  of  Natura  Maligna.  Her  small  face, 
so  politely  sweet  in  the  frame  of  her  wide  hat,  ex- 
pressed nothing  but  a  happy  freedom  from  personal 
care.  There  were  no  shadows  on  her  forehead,  not  a 
wrinkle  round  her  lips  and  eyelids  or  on  the  white 
throat  which  her  net  ruffle  veiled  from  the  sun.  She 
walked  with  the  smooth  free  swing  of  a  tall  woman, 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  59 

and  these  miniature  strides  carried  her  over  the 
ground  more  rapidly  than  one  would  have  thought 
possible  to  a  lady  of  five  feet  nothing  who  never  seemed 
to  be  in  a  hurry.  She  was  half  a  mile  deep  in  the 
wood,  near  the  green  pond  where  rushes  grew  and 
waterhens  nested,  before  Evelyn  caught  her  up  and 
claimed  a  lover's  right  by  putting  his  arm  round  her 
waist.  They  were  engaged  to  be  married:  had  been 
half-engaged  as  far  back  as  Kitty  could  remember. 
George  Dent,  fond  as  he  was  of  Evelyn,  but  fonder  of 
his  sister,  had  recently  asked  her  when  the  marriage 
was  to  come  off.  She  had  with  difficulty  prevailed  on 
him  not  to  put  the  same  question  to  Evelyn. 

Buried  deep  in  the  wood  stood  the  Hunting  Tower, 
where  Henry  V  had  passed  a  couple  of  nights  when 
Lacy  Evelyn  offered  his  sovereign  a  day's  hawking 
over  the  half -reclaimed  fen-land  from  Babraham  to 
Ely.  There  were  rare  wildfowl  still  on  the  river, 
hawk  and  heron,  mallard  and  snipe.  But  the  present 
Sovereign  would  not  have  cared  to  be  accommodated 
in  the  present  Tower.  A  tall  round  shaft  of  stone, 
loopholed  for  arrows,  it  had  once  risen  clear  on  a  spur 
of  the  Downs,  but  was  now  muffled  in  a  dense  under- 
growth of  beech  and  hazel  saplings,  while  the  soil, 
centuries  deep  in  leafmould,  had  drifted  up  and  up 
round  the  walls  till  there  was  hardly  room  enough 
left  to  scramble  in.  There  was  no  need  of  a  key, 
however,  for  the  door  was  open.  Evelyn,  with  the 
energy  which  lazy  men  reserve  for  unimportant  occas- 
ions, lay  down  flat  on  his  stomach  to  examine  the  in- 
terior, then  reversed  himself  and  slid  through  feet 
first.  A  hollow  voice  floated  out  again,  "Come  along, 
Kitty-wee,  there  aren't  any  ghosts." 


60  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Miss  Dent  gave  a  pensive  shrug.  Her  pretty  dress, 
her  pretty  shoes !  But  it  would  have  been  against  her 
principles  to  retreat,  and  hanging  her  hat  on  a  branch 
she  wriggled  in  and  jumped  down.  To  her  surprise 
it  was  not  a  very  long  drop.  Within  as  without,  the 
ground  had  silted  up,  though  not  as  far;  an  accumu- 
lation of  dead  leaves  had  drifted  in  and  the  floor  was 
paved  with  them,  so  deeply  that  when  she  stood  up  the 
top  of  the  archway  was  not  much  above  her  waist.  It 
was  incredibly  dark.  The  wall  was  four  feet  thick 
and  had  no  windows,  and  what  little  light  struggled 
in  from  the  door,  through  undergrowth  and  ivy,  was 
all  thrown  down.  She  could  see  her  own  legs  and 
Evelyn's,  but  from  the  knees  up  they  were  invisible  to 
each  other.  Evelyn  struck  a  match.  Fitfully  it  irrad- 
iated an  octagonal  chamber  of  stone,  fifteen  or  twenty 
feet  high,  and  empty  except  for  the  drifted  leaves  and 
a  quantity  of  loose  dry  straw. 

"Some  tramp  has  been  dossing  in  here,"  said  Evelyn. 
"That  accounts  for  the  open  door.  He  must  have 
forced  the  lock  and  sneaked  the  straw  out  of  one  of 
my  ricks.  Confound  him,  weren't  three  feet  of  dead 
leaves  soft  enough  for  him?"  The  match  went  out  and 
once  more  darkness  fell  on  them,  a  velvet  dark  that 
felt  thick  to  the  touch.  "He  must  have  had  strong 
nerves.  I  couldn't  sleep  in  here,  could  you?" 

"But  where  are  the  loopholes?" 

"All  on  the  second  floor.  I  expect  they  had  that  for 
the  best  bedroom." 

"I  didn't  remember  there  was  a  second  floor." 

"Didn't  you?  It's  solid  enough,  patched  up  at  a 
later  date,  Tudor  or  Stuart :  hus^e  beams  thrown  across 
and  socketed  in  the  stone.  There  used  to  be  the  re- 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  61 

mains  of  a  staircase  and  trapdoor."  He  struck  a  sec- 
ond lucifer. 

"Mind  the  straw,"  said  Kitty. 

"Here  you  are!"  It  ran  up  the  wall,  a  winding 
wooden  stair  to  which  clung  a  few  fragments  of  carved 
balustrade,  little  left  of  the  rail,  many  of  the  steps 
worn  away  at  one  end  and  some  broken  down  alto- 
gether. Evelyn  instantly  blew  out  his  match  and 
began  to  climb  up  it.  Kitty  did  not  warn  him  that 
the  woodwork  was  probably  rotten  or  that  in  any  case 
it  was  a  risky  scramble  in  the  dark.  She  waited  till 
he  was  well  ahead  of  her — and  then  she  began  to  climb 
after  him.  "Hallo,  are  you  coming  too?"  Evelyn 
hailed  her  cheerfully.  "Mind  the  tenth  step,  there's  a 
crack  right  across  it.  Don't  throw  your  fourteen- 
stone  weight  on  it.  Miss  it  and  put  your  foot  on  the 
next." 

"I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  can't  reach,"  Kitty  explained.  "My  legs  are  too 
short.  Just  lend  me  a  hand,  that  is  if  you've  anything 
to  hang  on  to  yourself."  Precariously  clinging  to  a 
broken  baluster,  Evelyn  stooped  to  pull  her  after  him. 
"It'll  be  rather  difficult  getting  back,"  Kitty  mur- 
mured. "Down's  always  worse  than  up." 

"Wait  while  I  reconnoitre,  there  seems  to  be  a  gap 
here."  He  lit  a  third  match,  taking  good  care  to  ex- 
tinguish it  before  letting  it  fall.  "There  is  a  sort  of  a 
gap,  but  after  that  the  steps  go  on  pretty  regularly 
to  the  top.  Hold  on  till  I  get  over  this  difficult  bit, 
then  I  can  attend  to  you."  He  swung  himself  up  by 
both  hands  and  one  knee.  "Now  can  you  get  along  if 


62  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

I  give  you  one  hand?  Then  I  can  hang  on  with  the 
other." 

"I— I  think  so,"  said  Kitty,  a  little  out  of  breath. 
The  spirit  was  willing,  the  flesh  was  agile  and  wiry, 
but  her  legs  were  undeniably  short  and  the  flounced 
skirt  was  modishly  tight  round  her  knees.  But  it  was 
dark  in  the  Tower.  .  .  .  Kitty  seized  the  black  and 
grey  frills  and  the  white  frills  underneath  them  and 
bundled  up  all  her  petticoats  not  only  round  her  waist 
but  over  her  shoulders.  It  was  far  too  dark  for  Eve- 
lyn to  distinguish  the  slim  legs  in  their  pretty  green 
breeches.  .  .  .  The  last  round  of  the  ascent  was  com- 
paratively easy.  Evelyn  flung  up  the  trapdoor, 
emerged,  produced  an  end  of  candle  from  his  pocket, 
lit  it,  and  drew  Kitty  after  him — a  Kitty  enveloped 
in  a  shower  of  flounces,  which  fell  lower  and  lower 
as  she  rose  out  of  the  hole  till  the  green  legs  disap- 
peared altogether  with  a  little  twist  and  shake. 
"There  isn't  much  to  see,  is  there?"  said  Evelyn :  which 
was,  Kitty  reflected,  precisely  what  he  would  say. 
"I  wonder  why  we  came  up." 

They  were  in  a  second  octagonal  stone  chamber  the 
counterpart  of  the  first,  equally  bare  except  for  masses 
of  cobweb  which  hung  like  flags  in  every  corner,  and 
almost  equally  dark,  for  there  were  only  three  deep 
and  narrow  loopholes,  and  over  all  a  dense  mantle 
of  ivy  hung  like  a  black  blind.  In  the  shadows  of 
the  raftered  roof  a  bat  colony,  disturbed  after  years 
of  peaceful  habitation,  turned  their  shrivelled  necks 
and  blinked  down  with  cold  snaky  eyes  at  the  tiny 
flame  which  Evelyn  cherished  in  his  hand. 

"It  was  fun  coming  up  anyhow,"  said  Kitty  sweetly. 
"Especially  the  last  step  but  nine — the  step  that 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  63 

wasn't  there."  She  gave  her  little  musical  laugh.  "I 
really  thought  we  should  both  have  rolled  off  together. 
I  should  have  fallen  soft  on  all  those  leaves,  but  I 
reflected  with  dismay  that  you  would  fall  on  top  of  me. 
We  never  shall  get  down — oh !  Oh  dear  me,  what  in 
the  world  do  you  think  you're  doing?" 

"Now  say  good  morning !" 

Setting  the  candle  on  the  floor,  deftly  and  daintily 
he  had  lifted  Kitty,  a  hand  under  either  arm,  to  the 
level  of  his  own  eyes.  It  was  like  lifting  a  child,  she 
was  so  tiny  and  light — but  a  vexed  child  who  tried  to 
push  him  away.  "No,  Kitty,  not  your  cheek.  Hang 
it,  I'm  not  George !  One  little  kiss  for  good  morning 
— no,  the  varlet  isn't  going  to  unhand  you,  and  you 
can't  run,  this  floor  is  pretty  solid  but  I  doubt  if  it 
would  hold  out  under  hide  and  seek.  Besides,  I'm 
holding  you  too  fast.  Didn't  I  warn  you  I'd  hold  you 
fast  if  you  tried  to  run?" 

"No !  no !"  said  Kitty  vehemently,  struggling  to  re- 
lease herself,  "let  me  go  this  instant,  Eve — ah !  there 
now!"  Either  she  or  Evelyn  had  knocked  over  the 
end  of  candle,  which  instantly  left  them  again  in 
Egyptian  darkness.  "Oh  mind,  Eve,  mind  the  trap- 
door!" 

Evelyn  had  set  her  free  the  moment  the  light  van- 
ished. "Stand  still;  don't  move  while  I  strike  a 
match."  He  struck  three  or  four  at  once  and  held 
them  up  like  a  torch.  Kitty  had  her  back  to  the  wall, 
one  arm  still  raised  to  fend  him  off;  in  the  wavering 
tawny  glare  her  eyes  shone  wide  and  startled.  "Why, 
Kitty -wee,  what  is  it?  One  would  think  you  had 
seen  a  ghost!" 

"So  I  have." 


64  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Henry  V's?" 

"The  ghost  of  happier  things,"  said  Kitty  under 
her  breath. 

"Bless  her,  isn't  she  oracular?  On  my  word,  if  I 
were  of  a  jealous  disposition,  I  really  should  conclude 
there  was  a  second  Hector  in  the  field.  You  may 
thank  your  small  stars  I'm  not !"  The  lucif ers  were 
by  now  burning  Evelyn's  fingers,  and  with  a  hurried 
"Bother!"  he  blew  them  out  and  threw  them  away. 
"Let's  go  down,  this  place  is  triste — Hallo !" 

"What?" 

"Did  you  happen  to  notice  what  became  of  the 
candle?" 

"No,  why,  haven't  you  any  more  matches?" 

"Plenty.  But  wait  half  a  second,  darling,  don't 
stir.  .  .  ." 

Kitty  watched  him  go  over  to  the  trapdoor.  Now 
that  her  eyes  were  used  to  the  gloom  there  was  light 
enough  for  her  to  see  how  his  face  changed  when  he 
reached  it.  Before  he  opened  his  lips,  a  wavering  ruby 
ray  of  light  reflected  up  as  if  out  of  a  well  over  the 
whiteness  of  his  face  and  hands,  and  striking  on  to- 
wards the  dark  height  of  the  roof,  told  her  in  one  ap- 
palling second  what  had  happened.  The  candle  that 
they  had  knocked  over  between  them  had  rolled  to 
the  edge  of  the  trap  and  fallen  on  the  floor  below. 
Nine  times  out  of  ten  a  candle  goes  out  in  falling,  but 
this  was  one  of  the  tenth  times  when  it  remains  alight, 
and  the  loose  dry  straw  was  already  in  a  blaze. 

Kitty  shook  from  head  to  foot.  Her  instinct  was  to 
make  a  dash  for  the  staircase.  She  curbed  it  and  was 
master  of  her  own  soul  before  at  length  after  an  end- 
less moment  Evelyn  shut  the  trap  and  held  out  his 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  65 

arms.  "Kather  alarming,  isn't  it?  But  there's  no 
danger  so  long  as  we  keep  quiet  till  that  little  fuss 
downstairs  has  burnt  itself  out.  Would  you  rather 
cut  and  run?  I  did  think  of  it.  But  it  took  us  five 
minutes  to  get  up,  and  as  you  justly  observed  going 
down  is  always  worse.  Ten  to  one  we  should  tumble 
off  one  of  the  broken  steps  and  get  rather  badly 
scorched  before  we  could  crawl  out  of  that  narrow 
archway.  Whereas  we're  perfectly  safe  up  here — 
these  beams  are  far  too  solid  to  burn." 

"I  can  feel  your  heart  going  like  a  hammer." 

"Hey?"   said   Evelyn,   disconcerted. 

"Feel,"  said  Kitty.  She  seized  his  hand  and  pressed 
it  against  his  thin  shirt.  "Oh,  I  know  you're  not 
afraid  for  yourself!  After  all  these  years,  should  I 
think  that?"  And  what  a  pretty  fellow  a  man  would 
be,  Evelyn  reflected  with  a  wry  smile  over  the  top  of 
Miss  Dent's  head,  if  he  were  what  a  woman  thinks 
him !  Evelyn  was  most  dreadfully  frightened.  He 
had  the  incontinent  courage  of  the  imaginative  man, 
which  is  always  getting  him  into  hot  corners  and 
then  deserting  him;  literally  hot  in  the  present  in- 
stance, for  between  the  solid  joints  underfoot  there 
were  innumerable  cracks,  through  which  an  infernal 
rosy  glow  mounted  brightening  every  moment.  He 
would  have  given  worlds  to  be  out  of  the  Tower.  But 
he  tried  to  look  more  heroic  than  he  felt,  though 
he  really  was  not  so  well  trained  as  Kitty,  an  out- 
of-door  lady  who  had  ridden  to  hounds  since  she  was 
fifteen. 

"There  is  danger,  isn't  there?"  said  Kitty. 

"Yes." 

"Rather  bad  danger?" 


66  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

"Less  since  you're  so  cool.  Dare  yon  be  left  for  a 
minute?" 

"Why?" 

"Because  what  I  really  fear  is  that  the  flames  may 
catch  from  stair  to  stair  till  they  reach  this  floor. 
They  never  would  shoot  up  twenty  feet,  and  the  walls 
are  stone,  and  the  loopholes  will  give  us  a  breath  of 
air.  But  all  the  woodwork  is  wormy  and  as  dry  as 
tinder.  Will  you  shut  your  eyes  and  not  stir  till  I 
come  back?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Break  away  as  many  steps  as  I  can  to  widen  the 
gap."  He  was  scrambling  through  the  trapdoor  as 
he  spoke.  "By  Jove,  they're  already  alight  at  the 
bottom !  Shut  the  door  quick,  darling,  we  don't  want 
the  place  full  of  smoke." 

"But  if  I  shut  it,"  Kitty  objected,  "while  you're 
on  the  staircase,  you'll  be  suffocated  and  fall."  She 
knelt  by  the  edge  and  peered  down.  Evelyn  was  al- 
ready far  below  her,  tearing  away  broken  bite  of  stair 
and  balustrade.  The  tower  shaft  was  no  longer  dark. 
The  floor  was  a  whirl  of  fire :  smoke  was  pouring  up 
in  blinding  gusts  right  into  the  roof,  stupefying  the 
bats,  which  let  go  their  hold  and  came  swooping  and 
fluttering  down  through  the  rafters:  across  a  sullen 
universal  glow  of  burning  straw  and  leaves,  arrowy 
sparkles  that  crackled  and  spat  showed  where  the 
woodwork  had  caught  in  flaws  of  a  keener  flame.  Eve- 
lyn raised  his  pale  face  for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  mind  shutting  the  door,  please?" 

"What,  and  shut  you  out?" 

"The  privilege  of  going  first,  my  dear,  is  the  only 
one  we  still  claim." 


CLAIK  DE  LUNE  67 

"But  you'll  be  stifled  if  I  do.  While  it's  open  it 
draws  up  the  smoke  like  a  chimney." 

"Oh  for  goodness'  sake  don't  stand  arguing, 
Kitty !" 

"I  can't,"  Kitty  gasped,  choking  in  the  fumes  that 
half  hid  him  from  her.  "Oh  Eve,  come  back — would 
you  mind?  I'm  very  sorry  but  I — I  can't  stand 
this—" 

Drilled  in  a  hard  tradition,  she  did  feel  it  her  duty 
to  let  him  die  for  her  if  he  liked,  but  it  was  a  duty 
too  hard  for  her.  What !  crouch  by  the  shut  door  and 
listen  for  a  fall — cries  perhaps?  the  cries  that  no 
fortitude  can  repress.  .  .  . 

Evelyn  dashed  the  smoke  out  of  his  eyes.  It  was 
rapidly  thickening,  as  the  fire,  from  a  mere  surface 
blaze,  took  deeper  and  deeper  root  among  the  drifted 
heaps  of  leaf.  His  own  attitude  was  almost  unten- 
able :  indeed  when  he  tried  to  recall  it  later  he  could 
not  imagine  what  attitude  it  had  been.  He  could  not 
in  cold  blood  see  how  a  man  could  cling  on  head  down- 
ward and  lean  across  a  gap  to  wrench  the  steps  out 
of  a  stone  wall ;  or  how,  having  done  it,  he  could  ever 
get  up  and  get  back  again.  But  the  swirl  of  flames 
in  the  tower  shaft  would  have  lent  a  cripple  wings. 
And  there  was  Kitty  piteously  calling  him,  "Oh,  no 
more,  Eve,  I  can't,  I  can't  bear  it.  .  .  ." 

It  was  time.  He  could  do  no  more.  Blinded,  suf- 
focating, Evelyn  turned  to  clamber  back;  but  when 
he  reached  the  trap  he  would  have  fallen  off  if  Kitty 
had  not  seized  him.  Her  arms  under  his  shoulders, 
he  crawled  over  it,  shut  it,  and  clung  to  her  half  faint- 
ing. He  dared  not  let  himself  drop  on  the  floor. 
Waifs  of  smoke  were  curling  up  over  it,  and  through 


68  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

its  interstices  the  fierce  furnace  below  shone  as  the 
waters  of  a  river  shine  through  a  loose-built  bridge. 
It  was  becoming  intolerably  hot  and  the  chatter  of 
leaves  and  the  sharper  crackling  of  woodwork  were 
merging  into  one  loud  continuous  roar;  and  in  the 
middle  through  every  wider  crack  could  be  seen 
orange-coloured  tongues  darting  along  the  sides  of 
the  Tower,  yellow  whips  of  flame  that  struck  up  and 
up — how  far?  Impossible  to  judge:  they  might  have 
been  ten  feet  below,  or  not  ten  inches. 

"Come  over  here,"  said  Kitty,  and  in  her  arms  Eve- 
lyn staggered  over  to  a  loophole.  It  was  the  barest  ar- 
row-slit and  sunk  four  feet  deep  in  the  wall,  but  in  its 
embrasure  the  air  was  comparatively  fresh  and  the 
floor  was  solid  underfoot.  Kitty  tried  to  tear  away 
the  ivy.  She  could  reach  it  only  with  her  fingertips, 
but  she  broke  off  a  leaf  or  two.  How  strange  to  see 
pale  autumn  sunshine  gleaming  on  a  green  branch! 

"Suppose  the  floor  doesn't  catch,  how  long  will  the 
fire  take  to  burn  out?" 

Evelyn  had  no  idea.  "Oh,  no  time:  a  bonfire  of 
leaves  is  soon  through,  and  the  lower  strata  must  be 
practically  sodden  with  last  winter's  rains.  I  should 
think  only  this  summer's  leaves  will  burn.  Let's  see 
if  we  can  make  anyone  hear." 

They  called  again  and  again,  but  through  such  a 
deep  loophole  and  the  dense  ivy  beyond  it  no  voice 
could  have  carried,  and  in  a  little  while  they  desisted 
by  common  consent,  exhausted,  and  chilled  by  an  in- 
creased sense  of  loneliness,  like  a  man  frightened 
by  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  in  an  empty  house.  "No 
use,"  said  Evelyn.  "No  one  ever  comes  this  way." 

"No :  or  if  they  did  they  would  see  the  smoke  before 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  69 

they  heard  us  calling.  ...  I  wish  I  could  have  said 
goodbye  to  George." 

"Kitty!  don't  talk  like  that,"  said  Evelyn,  shudder- 
ing. "You  mustn't  die.  You're  too  young." 

"  'Queens  have  died  young  and  fair,' "  Kitty  mur- 
mured with  a  gleam  of  mischief.  "These  things  do 
happen.  Shipwrecks,  train  disasters — and  always, 
I  suppose,  the  people  in  them  have  this  silly  feeling 
of  surprise,  not  to  say  indignation.  .  .  .  But  what  a 
headline  for  the  evening  papers!  'Famous  Pianist's 
Terrible  Fate/  We  ought  to  be  praying.  I  wonder 
if  we  shall  find  Philip.  Are  you  afraid?" 

"Bather,  for  you." 

"I'm  not." 

"But  it  was  my  fault — I  brought  you  here." 

"No,  I  came  for  the  fun  of  it.  Oh,  thank  heaven 
I  did  come!" 

But  if  she  had  not  come  Evelyn  would  have  run 
for  it  when  he  first  saw  the  fire.  It  was  the  remem- 
brance of  Kitty's  light  inflammable  flounces  that  had 
held  him  back — not  to  say  the  shortness  of  her  legs. 
Besides,  he  was  a  man,  and  could  not  help  taking  the 
practical  view  that  it  was  a  pity  two  lives  should 
be  lost  in  place  of  one,  instead  of  the  sentimental 
view  that  it  was  consoling  to  die  together.  It  was 
no  consolation  at  all  to  Evelyn  to  have  Kitty  with  him 
if  he  was  going  to  die,  he  would  really  rather  have 
been  free  to  be  as  much  of  a  coward  as  he  liked.  For 
his  life  he  could  not  help  smiling  at  her — "I'm  not  a 
bit  glad  you  came,  darling." 

Blind  to  shades  of  dramatic  irony,  Kitty  raised  her 
face,  pearl-white  under  grey  smears  of  smoke  and 
dust.  "Eve,  look  down  there.  The  flames  are  aw- 


70  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

fully  near  now  and  there  are  any  quantity  of  sparks 
flying  about ;  and  there's  more  smell  of  burning  wood 
too.  I  believe  this  floor  is  beginning  to  char."  He 
thought  so  too  and  was  silent.  "May  I  hide  my  eyes?" 

"Here,"  said  Evelyn,  taking  her  to  his  heart  and 
straining  her  to  him  in  a  passion  of  remorseful  pity. 
"Oh,  Kitty,  if  I  could  die  twenty  times  over  to  save 
you !"  She  gave  a  soft  sigh  and  nestled  her  head  down 
like  a  child  preparing  to  sleep. 

"Then  you  do  love  me?" 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"What  I  asked  you  in  the  garden  half  an  hour  ago. 
Don't  laugh  at  me;  I've  always  wondered  and  never 
known,  and  this  was  my  last  chance,  if  we're  going  to 
die.  Don't,  don't  laugh !  you're  not  quite  like  other 
men,  and  I — I'm  sentimental  at  heart  like  all  women. 
But  you  do  love  me :  if  we  had  lived  you  would  have 
married  me,  and  not  only  to  satisfy  George — you 
would  have  liked  to  be  married  to  me?" 

Then  he  lied  to  her.  "I  would  give  my  soul  to  be 
married  to  you  now." 

And  till  that  moment  he  had  never  known  it  was  a 
lie :  but  he  knew  it  then.  He  loved  her  as  the  dearest 
of  friends  and  comrades,  more  to  him  than  any  man, 
infinitely  more  than  any  other  woman :  she  fascinated 
him,  lying  in  his  arms  in  her  fresh  and  pale  beauty, 
serene  on  the  brink  of  death  with  her  cool  high-spirited 
temperament,  the  counterpart  of  his  own.  But  he  did 
not  want  to  marry  her,  or  anyone,  and  in  his  clasp 
there  was  no  passion,  nothing  but  tenderness  and  pity : 
he  had  drifted  into  his  engagement  without  looking 
to  its  end  or  his  own  limitations,  but  now  he  realised 
that  the  ties  of  human  union  were  not  for  him.  All 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  71 

the  bent  of  his  nature  turned  towards  solitude  and 
freedom.  Even  his  friends  tired  him  when  they  came 
too  near — his  mother,  Philip,  George  Dent,  even  Hurst 
and  Meredith,  he  could  not  bear  them  to  watch  him ; 
his  instinct  had  always  been  to  glimmer  and  evade. 
Was  that  why  Hurst  called  him  a  Faun?  .  .  .  What 
covert  of  the  wild  woods  is  left  to  a  Faun  entrapped 
in  a  mortal  marriage? 

He  might  have  been  warned.  A  man  to  whom 
women  were  gracious,  Evelyn  had  sought  pleasure  now 
and  again,  but  it  had  never  pleased  him ;  those  experi- 
ments had  always  begun  in  good  nature  and  ended 
in  disgust.  All  his  life  he  had  remained  essentially 
cold  to  women,  and  he  was  ice-cold  now  to  Kitty  Dent ; 
for  all  her  beauty,  Evelyn  half  hated  her  for  begging 
from  him  what  he  had  not  to  give.  But  one  must  ful- 
fil the  obligations  of  a  gentleman. 

"If  we  escape,  I  shall  never  dare  to  let  you  out  of 
my  sight  again.  You  won't  put  me  off?" 

"No." 

But  with  a  smile  full  of  irony  Evelyn  reflected 
that  they  were  not  likely  to  escape.  He  hated  himself 
for  lying  to  Kitty,  and  yet  was  cynical  enough  to  run. 
up  a  deeper  debt  because  the  bill  would  never  be  pre- 
sented for  payment.  "It'll  be  white  satin  and  orange- 
blossoms  for  you  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  then 
no  more  goodbyes.  I,  not  love  you,  Kitty?  If  we 
escape  you'll  soon  learn  whether  or  no  I  want  to 
marry  you.  I — Hallo !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  some  one  shouting,"  Evelyn  ex- 
plained with  a  complete  change  of  manner  and  a  drop 
of  some  twenty  degrees  in  the  emotional  temperature. 


72  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

"Hang  out  of  the  window,  darling,  you're  smaller 
than  I  am  and  I  can  give  you  a  leg  up." 

He  lifted  Kitty  into  the  arrowslit  and  made  her 
wave  her  handkerchief  while  they  both  shouted  to- 
gether. Faint  and  far  off  over  the  roar  of  the  flames 
an  answering  cry  reached  them — George  Dent's  voice, 
the  words  indistinguishable,  the  tone  cheery :  and  with 
it,  drowning  it,  a  tremendous  hiss  of  water,  volumes  of 
smoke  and  steam.  .  .  . 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  adventure  was  over  as 
abruptly  as  it  had  begun.  Pails  of  water  fetched  from 
the  neighbouring  pond  had  put  the  fire  out  almost  in- 
stantly. The  drenched  leaves  were  still  smouldering 
underneath,  the  walls  were  blackened,  the  stair  was 
consumed,  part  of  the  ceiling  had  begun  to  char — 
but  when  a  farm  ladder  had  been  reared  up  to  the 
trapdoor,  and  Dent's  head  and  shoulders  rose  over 
it,  Evelyn  still  had  enough  energy  left  to  carry  Kitty 
over  the  scorching  beams,  though  before  he  reached 
Dent  he  was  so  faint  that  he  fell  with  her  in  his  arms. 
Dent  caught  her  from  him,  got  her  into  the  open  air, 
and  returned  to  help  Evelyn  down;  and  by  the  time 
Evelyn  had  been  half  led,  half  lifted  through  the 
hurriedly  excavated  doorway,  Kitty  was  sitting  up 
and  trying  to  smooth  her  hair. 

"But  what  on  earth  were  you  two  idiots  doing  up 
the  Tower?"  demanded  George  Dent.  He  had  been 
frightened  out  of  his  life  and  his  tone  was  almost  as 
warm  as  the  whitehot  stones  of  the  doorway.  "You 
ought  to  be  locked  up  each  in  a  separate  lunatic 
asylum!  If  I  hadn't  happened  to  cut  through  the 
wood  and  catch  sight  of  all  that  smoke — !  And  even 


CLAIR  DE  LtJNE  73 

then  I  only  thought  it  was  some  fool  of  a  tramp. 
When  I  saw  Kitty's  hat  you  could  have  knocked  me 
down  with  a  feather!  Deaf  as  two  posts,  too,  I've 
been  shouting  for  half  an  hour — " 

"Dearest,  why  spoil  the  flavour  of  a  good  action  by 
doing  it  ungraciously?"  Kitty  murmured.  "You  en- 
joyed rescuing  us  and  we  enjoyed  being  rescued,  so 
what  more  do  you  want?  You're  so  captious.  Keally 
we  found  it  all  very  pleasant,  didn't  we,  Eve?" 

"Not  all,"  said  Evelyn.  "I  wasn't  happy  when  I  was 
hanging  on  to  nothing  head  downwards.  I  was  dread- 
fully afraid  I  should  fall  off  and  burn  my  hands." 
He  examined  his  fingertips  regretfully.  "As  it  is, 
they're  so  scratched  I  shan't  be  able  to  touch  a  note  for 
a  fortnight.  No:  it  was  a  tophole  adventure  with  a 
thrilling  climax,  but  a  trifle  too  expensive  for  a  pro- 
fessional man  like  me." 


CHAPTER  V 


"My  sister?" 

"Eve  is  coming  round  to-morrow  morning 
to  have  a  little  chat  with  you  —  unless  he  forgets." 

George  Dent,  who  was  sitting  in  a  leathern  arm- 
chair with  his  feet  in  the  fender,  holding  up  the  Tele- 
graph between  him  and  an  autumnal  fire,  lowered  the 
paper  to  look  over  the  top  of  it.  "Unless  he  forgets, 
hey?" 

"Which  I  don't  think  he  will,"  said  Kitty.  The 
mistress  of  the  Manor  Farm  never  lounged;  she  sat 
erect,  her  knees  crossed,  her  fingers  flying  round  the 
heel  of  a  silk  sock,  her  silvergilt  hair  tied  with  a  silver 
fillet  which  harmonised  with  a  lilac-coloured  gauze 
dress  and  silver  buckles  on  lilac  shoes.  George  Dent, 
though  his  dinner  jacket  was  much  the  worse  for 
wear,  had  the  same  well-washed  and  well-brushed  ap- 
pearance as  his  sister  ;  different  in  all  else,  they  were 
alike  in  a  military  neatness  and  precision. 

The  Dents  came  of  old  yeoman  stock,  and  George, 
when  he  had  to  state  his  profession,  still  wrote 
"Farmer"  in  his  thick,  small,  black  writing,  clear  as 
print.  The  Manor  Farm  was  a  very  different  place 
from  Temple  Evelyn.  It  was  a  middle-sized  house  of 
no  architectural  pretensions,  the  greater  part  of  it 
Victorian  roughcast  under  a  tapestry  of  Virginian 
creeper,  Dijon  roses,  and  wistaria.  A  couple  of  dor- 
mer windows,  a  patch  of  old  tiles,  and  some  oak- 

74 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  75 

beamed  ceilings  on  the  first  floor  were  all  that  was 
left  of  the  original  building.  GeorgetDent's  father  had 
thrown  out  wide  sunny  bays  and  a  porch,  and  George 
himself  had  reduced  the  lawn  to  velvet,  while  Kitty 
clipped  yews  and  planted  roses  on  either  side  of  its 
flagged  pathway;  but  no  attempt  had  been  made  to 
screen  off  the  mossy  barns  and  golden  hay-ricks  that 
lay  behind  the  house,  clustered  under  golden  beech- 
woods  on  the  chalky  slope  of  the  Hills. 

The  Dents  had  risen  in  the  world.  John,  the  father 
of  George  and  Kitty,  had  "married  a  lady,"  as  people 
used  to  say  even  as  late  as  the  nineties,  and  a  lady 
who  brought  him  wealth  and  a  strain  of  beauty  as 
well  as  her  love  and  her  crystalline  delicacy  of  taste. 
He  sent  his  son  to  Rugby  and  his  daughter  to  Girton. 
But  John  Dent  himself  had  had  to  be  content  with  a 
local  grammar  school,  and  Henry,  two  generations 
ago,  had  learnt  his  three  R's  with  the  village  boys,  and 
touched  his  cap  to  the  Evelyn  family  to  his  dying 
day.  The  young  Dents  were  well  off  now  and  could 
have  lived  at  ease  in  idleness,  but  George  kept  on  the 
farm  because  he  loved  the  work  of  it,  and  when  at 
home  Kitty  for  the  same  reason  tied  herself  into  a 
blue  overall  every  morning  wet  or  dry,  and  laboured 
like  Fair  Margaret  of  Freshingfield  in  chicken  run  or 
dairy.  Indeed  she  was  happier  there  than  staying 
in  Kensington  with  her  mother's  family. 

As  commonly  happens  in  such  cases,  the  brother  and 
sister  had  made  as  many  friends  as  they  cared  to 
know,  at  first  among  people  whom  they  met  away  from 
home,  and  later  by  reflex  action  in  Cambridge  and  their 
own  neighbourhood.  The  last  barrier  had  fallen  when 
the  wife  of  a  war  millionaire  referred  to  Kitty  Dent, 


76  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

in  the  hearing  of  a  great  lady  of  the  countryside,  as 
"only  a  farmer's  daughter."  Mrs.  Blundell  had  never 
called  on  Kitty,  but  this  temerity  of  the  New  Rich 
awoke  in  her  gentle  bosom  the  defensive  instinct  of  a 
feudal  lord.  The  next  day  her  pony  carriage  trotted 
up  to  the  Manor  Farm  gates. 

The  Dents  had  risen  in  the  world  while  the  Evelyns 
were  standing  still.  The  roll  of  Evelyn  names  was 
long  and  not  undistinguished,  but  the  Victorian  era 
chronicled  no  courtier-politician  like  Lacy  Evelyn,  no 
soldier  like  Ralph  the  hero  of  Marston  Moor,  no  wit 
like  Lawrence  the  poet-friend  of  Charles  Sedley,  nor 
even  such  a  beau  as  Robert,  ame  damnee  of  the  Regent. 
Perhaps  in  the  close  atmosphere  of  Victorian  respect- 
ability their  genius  was  not  adapted  to  flourish.  They 
had  lost  money  too,  partly  through  depreciation  of 
land  values  and  partly  through  foolish  speculation. 
Geoffrey  Evelyn  dropped  big  sums  on  the  Turf,  his 
son  Edmund  burnt  his  fingers  over  the  Jameson  Raid. 
There  never  was  a  man  of  Evelyn  stock  that  could 
refuse  a  bet  or  a  loan,  till  Philip  Evelyn — who  was  a 
Masson — came  into  the  estates. 

The  Masson  blood,  his  mother's  blood,  had  brought 
in  an  acquisitive  strain,  and  during  Philip's  long  mi- 
nority, while  Mrs.  Evelyn  held  the  reins,  her  son  had 
gone  heart  and  soul  with  her  in  her  struggle  to  clear 
off  the  mortgage  which  her  husband,  before  breaking 
his  neck  in  the  hunting  field,  had  laid  on  the  land.  It 
was  done  before  Mrs.  Evelyn's  death.  Philip  at 
twenty-four  was  master  in  his  own  house.  But  a  good 
deal  of  Mrs.  Evelyn's  own  money  had  gone  in  the  pro- 
cess, and  there  was  not  enough  left  to  keep  up  Temple 
Evelyn  except  by  rigorous  care.  A  never-ending  cause 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  77 

of  dissension  between  her  sons  had  been  the  inability 
of  the  younger  to  keep  within  what  the  elder  called  a 
generous  allowance.  Philip  was  in  the  right,  for  he 
gave  his  brother  more  than  he  kept  for  himself.  But 
then,  as  the  exasperated  Philip  was  eternally  forget- 
ting and  eternally  being  forced  to  remember,  Charles 
was  incapable  of  seeing  straight  in  money  matters. 
For  him,  two  and  two  always  made  three  and  a  griev- 
ance. 

After  his  mother's  death,  Philip  showed  less  com- 
mon sense  in  objecting  to  Charles  Evelyn's  passion 
for  music,  which  Mary  Evelyn  had  fostered.  Herself 
a  keen  musician,  she  was  delighted  when  the  boy 
learnt  his  notes  before  he  was  out  of  petticoats,  and 
began  to  play  sonatas  and  compose  waltzes  at  the 
innocent  age  of  five.  She  taught  him  by  the  oldfash- 
ioned  drastic  method  that  she  had  learnt  in  Germany 
in  1850-60,  Kalkbrenner's  method,  a  rod  to  enforce 
wrist  and  finger  action  by  keeping  down  the  forearm. 
She  put  him  through  the  books  that  had  formed  her 
own  musical  library — Catel's  treatise  on  harmony, 
Cherubini's  on  counterpoint,  Mozart's  Succinct  Thor- 
oughbass. At  sixteen  in  the  teeth  of  Philip's  grumbles 
he  was  taken  from  Rugby  to  become  one  of  Letchet- 
izsky's  piano  pupils  in  Vienna,  two  years  later  he  went 
to  Petrograd  to  study  composition  under  Rimsky- 
Korsakov ;  and  the  single  bond  of  union  between  him 
f.nd  his  mother  was  her  joy  in  his  early  triumphs — 
his  first  appearance  on  a  Leipzig  concert  platform,  a 
kindly  letter  from  Troldhaugen,  a  May  term  produc- 
tion— to  her  most  precious  of  all — ,  by  the  veteran 
conductor  of  the  C.  U.  M.  S.,  of  a  Rhapsody  written 
when  he  was  twenty  and  under  the  spell  of  Brahms. 


78  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

But  even  this  tie  was  weakened  after  a  year  at 
Cambridge  and  a  second  year  in  Paris,  when  the 
young  man  began  to  strike  out  on  a  path  of  his  own, 
turning  from  "the  Lorelei  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Sirens 
of  the  Mediterranean"  towards  the  verve  and  gaiety 
and  impeccable  art  of  France.  Mrs.  Evelyn  consid- 
ered Massenet  shallow,  d'Indy  grotesque,  and  Pelleas 
simply  immoral.  "This  makes  me  regret  the  money 
spent  on  Evelyn's  musical  education,"  she  said  to 
Philip,  after  trying  over  a  couple  of  exceedingly 
French  duets.  "There's  no  doubt  that  God  has  given 
him  a  great  talent.  But  what  is  the  use  of  it  if  it's 
to  be  frittered  away  on  foolish  and  wicked  songs  like 
these?"  Philip's  shrug  was  tantamount  to  an  "I 
told  you  so." 

In  Philip's  opinion  the  most  sensible  thing  his 
brother  ever  did  was  to  get  engaged  to  Kitty  Dent. 
The  Manor  was  the  largest  of  the  Temple  Evelyn 
farms,  and  held  on  immemorial  leasehold;  and  per- 
haps one  might  have  expected  Philip,  a  Conservative 
through  and  through,  to  look  down  on  the  children  of 
his  father's  tenants.  But  there  had  never  been  any 
feeling  of  disparity  between  them.  The  relations  be- 
tween the  houses  had  altered  in  the  course  of  years, 
Edmund  Evelyn  had  borrowed  money  and  listened 
occasionally  to  good  advice  from  John  Dent,  the 
exquisite  and  whimsical  Lucilla  Dent  had  from  the 
first  found  her  best  friend  in  grave  Mary  Evelyn, 
and  so  in  the  present  generation  the  three  boys  and 
the  one  girl  had  all  grown  up  together,  and  it  was 
George  and  Kitty  who  kept  the  smouldering  feud  be- 
tween the  Evelyn  brothers  from  flaring  into  an  open 
quarrel. 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  79 

George  Dent  alone  of  the  four  did  not  forget  that 
his  grandfather  had  touched  his  hat  to  Charles  Eve^ 
lyn's  grandfather.  For  himself  he  did  not  care,  he 
had  no  pride,  or  too  much  pride :  but  he  was  sensitive 
for  his  sister. 

"Just  tell  me  how  the  land  lies,  Kitty." 

Kitty  waited  to  turn,  her  needle  before  giving  the 
required  information,  but  when  it  came  it  was  clear. 
"He  wants  to  settle  the  day  for  our  marriage.  I  sug- 
gested next  spring,  but  apparently  our  ridiculous  ad- 
venture in  the  Hunting  Tower  this  morning  has  fright- 
ened him,  and  he  doesn't  want  to  wait  more  than  a 
month  or  six  weeks.  Just  time  for  me  to  buy  my 
clothes." 

"And  what  do  you  say?" 

"Oh !  I  don't  want  to  wait  either.  We've  been  en- 
gaged such  a  long  while,  and  it's  not  as  though  there 
were  anything  particular  to  wait  for.  I  should  like 
a  day  late  in  November  or  early  in  December.  Then 
we  could  get  over  the  honeymoon  and  be  back  in  Lon- 
don by  the  New  Year." 

"So  then  if  that's  what  he  suggests  I'm  to  agree?" 

"Please." 

But  George  Dent  was  not  altogether  pleased.  He 
dreaded  losing  his  sister,  for  he  was  a  sociable  man 
and  the  Manor  Farm  would  be  lonely  to  him  when 
she  was  gone;  and  he  was  not  sure  that  marriage  tx> 
Charles  Evelyn  would  make  her  happy.  He  repressed 
a  sigh  and  turned  a  leaf  of  the  Telegraph.  "There's 
no  man  I'm  so  fond  of  as  I  am  of  Eve.  It's  a  great 
thing  to  have  known  each  other  all  your  lives ;  there's 
not  much  chance  for  either  of  you  to  get  let  in.  It's 
a  bit  awkward  all  the  same.  There  are  such  things  as 


'80  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

settlements,  but  I  don't  know  what  Eve's  got  to  settle 
on  you.  If  he  were  to  die  without  issue,  the  estate 
would  all  go  to  the  Hampshire  lot,  and  there's  precious 
little  personal  property.  He  ought  to  insure  his  life, 
but  unless  it  was  done  through  his  bankers  he'd  never 
remember  to  keep  up  the  payments,  and  my  impres- 
sion is  that  he's  always  overdrawn.  I  said  a  word 
about  it  to  Fen  wick*  one  day — Fen  wick  knows  I  know 
more  about  Eve's  concerns  than  Eve  does  himself: 
he  wouldn't  commit  himself,  but  he  made  a  wry  face 
and  murmured  something  about  stretching  a  point 
for  old  and  honoured  clients  like  the  Evelyns  that  had 
banked  with  them  for  over  a  century.  And  then  they 
say  there's  no  sentiment  in  business !" 

"I  had  rather  you  didn't  talk  to  Eve  about  settle- 
ments." 

"It's  usual,  Kitty:  though  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to 
talk  about  it  to  you.  But  you've  got  such  a  sound 
head,  more  like  a  man's  than  a  woman's,  one  forgets 
you're  only  a  woman  after  all." 

Knit  seven,  knit  two  together,  turn  your  needle. 
"This  is  precisely  why  I  spoke  to  you  beforehand. 
You  may  tie  up  my  own  money  as  tight  as  you  please 
— I'd  like  you  to:  tie  it  up  to  me  and  my  children 
so  that  Eve  can't  touch  it  and  I  can't  touch  it  for 
him ;  but  don't  try  to  make  Eve  settle  any  money  on 
me.  Don't  raise  the  subject  with  him  at  all.  He  cer- 
tainly won't  if  you  don't,  because  it  won't  occur  to 
him.  If  you  try  to  bully  him,  George,  you'll  make 
me  very  unhappy." 

"I  bully  Eve?" 

"It'll  come  to  that  if  you  worry  him  about  his  duty 
to  me.  It's  no  use  pretending  that  Eve  is  like  other 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  81 

men.  He  isn't ;  and  the  ideas  that  occur  normally  to 
other  men  never  seem  to  come  near  his  horizon. 
That's  one  of  the  joys  of  marrying  a  genius.  But  then 
it  cuts  both  ways;  a  great  many  men  would  resent 
the  tying  up  of  my  own  money,  whereas  Eve,  if  it 
ever  dawns  on  him  at  all,  will  be  charmed.  But  if 
you  bully  him  you'll  make  him  miserable,  and — "  she 
lingered  over  her  work. 

"Go  on,  my  dear,"  said  Dent,  watching  her  kindly. 

Purl  seven,  purl  two  together,  turn  your  needle. 
"You'll  make  him  not  want  to  marry  me." 

"Kitty?' 

"Oh!  he  will  marry  me,"  said  Kitty  with  a  faint 
ironical  smile.  "He  won't  throw  me  over.  Eve  would 
never  break  a  promise  or  let  a  woman  down.  But  I 
shall  represent  a  duty  to  him ;  and  I'd  rather  represent 
a  pleasure." 

"He'd  be  hard  to  please  if  you  didn't,"  said  her 
brother  shortly. 

"He  is  exceedingly  hard  to  please." 

"Well,  I  wish  you  were  going  to  marry  an  ordinary 
man.  I  couldn't  be  fonder  of  Eve  if  he  were  my  own 
brother,  but  there  are  times  when  I  should  like  to 
take  a  stick  to  him.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  genius ! 
Genius  is  neither  here  nor  there  when  a  fellow's  go- 
ing to  marry  your  sister.  What  I  should  like  to  see 
in  your  husband  is  good  firm  solid  character  and  a 
grasp  of  principle.  I  should  just  like  to  know  what 
sort  of  comfort  you'll  get  out  of  Eve  when  you've 
got  six  children  all  down  with  whooping-cough !" 

"Oh,"  Kitty  smiled  again  at  her  flitting  needles, 
"his  children,  if  he  ever  has  any,  will  have  to  shift 
for  themselves." 


82  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

George  Dent  cleared  his  throat.  "Do  you — are  you 
very  fond  of  him,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  very,"  said  Kitty  without  emphasis.  "Much 
too  fond  of  him  ever  to  marry  anyone  else.  You  know 
I've  always  liked  adventures,  and  Eve  makes  other 
men  seem  so  tame  and  ordinary.  It's  far  more  in- 
teresting never  to  know  what's  going  to  happen  next. 
Besides,  I'm  used  to  the  idea  of  marrying  Eve,  and 
I'm  too  much  of  a  Dent  and  a  Conservative  to  change 
my  mind." 

"H'm ;  well,  one  of  these  days  I  shall  take  a  stick 
to  him,"  said  George  Dent. 

Evelyn  did  not  forget.  He  appeared  next  morn- 
ing at  eleven  o'clock  with  a  gun  under  his  arm,  dressed 
in  a  very  old  shooting  suit  which  he  had  unearthed 
from  the  wardrobe  where  it  had  lain  since  his  brief 
University  days.  Vaulting  in  at  the  library  window, 
he  found  Dent  writing  letters  in  a  revolving  seat  be- 
fore an  American  desk  full  of  orderly  files.  Evelyn 
dropped  across  a  chair  and  flung  his  legs  over  the 
arm  of  it,  and  Dent,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  got  up 
and  took  his  gun  away.  "It  was  at  half-cock,"  he 
explained  resignedly.  "You're  not  fit  to  be  trusted 
with  a  gun  license."  Evelyn  said  "Oh  bother,"  and 
reached  for  a  cushion.  "Have  something  to  drink?" 
Evelyn  shook  his  head.  "Have  an  apple,"  Dent  then 
suggested,  pushing  over  a  bodge  basket  full  of  russets 
which  was  not  so  full  as  it  had  been  an  hour  ago. 

Evelyn  took  a  large  one  and  bit  into  it.  He  was 
looking,  not  exactly  shy,  but  coy  and  perverse :  like  a 
thoroughbred,  Dent  reflected,  sidling  before  a  fence 
which  it  knows  it  will  have  to  take  by  and  by.  Dent 


CLAIK  DE  LUNE  83 

got  up  and  stood  before  the  fire  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  the  smile  on  his  firm  lips  tinged  with 
sadness.  He  was  so  very  fond  of  Evelyn — in  any 
other  capacity  than  that  of  a  brother-in-law!  Dent 
had  known  him  too  long  to  have  any  illusions  left, 
but  he  still  had  much  love,  infinite  tolerance,  and, 
strangely  dashed  across,  that  haunting  memory  of 
the  relations  between  their  fathers.  Evelyn  was  still 
the  lord  of  the  manor  and  Dent  the  yeoman  farmer, 
though  Dent  had  fagged  Evelyn  at  school  and  stood 
between  him  and  Philip's  wrath  at  home.  After  all 
one  had  no  right  to  expect  from  that  finer  stock  the 
plain  common  sense  of  common  men.  .  .  .  Somewhere 
at  the  back  of  Dent's  mind  there  lingered,  defiant  of 
Democratic  Progress,  an  idea  that  the  chief  duty  of 
an  Evelyn  was  to  exist  gracefully. 

"That's  a  nice  suit,  Eve:  where  did  you  get  it 
from?" 

"Out  of  my  wardrobe,"  replied  Evelyn  innocently, 
and  in  absence  of  mind:  "it's  an  old  one." 

"No,  is  it?  But  I  thought  it  might  be,  because 
you've  got  a  hole  in  your  trousers." 

"Where?" 

Dent  indicated  the  locality  with  the  stem  of  his 
pipe. 

"Oh  bother !    I  shall  have  to  go  home  and  change." 

"Unless  you  would  like  Kitty  to  lend  you  a  pina- 
fore." 

"Are  you  being  amusing  by  any  chance?  So  sorry, 
if  you  would  warn  me  beforehand  I'd  try  to  be  amused. 
Hand  me  over  that  Telegraph.''1  Evelyn  disposed  the 
newspaper  in  front  of  him.  "That's  in  case  Kitty 
should  come  in.  All  the  same  I  wish  moth  and  rust 


84  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

wouldn't  corrupt,  it's  so  ruinously  expensive  to  be 
always  buying  clothes.  I'd  borrow  yours  if  you 
weren't  so  wide  in  the  beam."  Dent  smiled  serenely, 
pulling  up  his  coat  tails  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the 
fire  on  his  legs.  He  was  broadshouldered  and  thick- 
set, but  lean  from  much  riding  and  as  hard  as  nails. 
"I  really  must  have  Fraser  up,  he  can  always  find 
me  something  to  put  on,  which  is  more  than  I  can. 
I've  just  had  to  buy  some  pyjamas  in  the  village, 
I  don't  seem  to  have  any." 

"No  pyjamas?" 

"Well,  I  can't  see  any.  There  aren't  any  in  my 
drawer." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  come  over  and  look  for 
your  pyjamas,  do  you?"  Dent  asked,  not  entirely  iron- 
ical; he  had  done  odder  jobs  than  that  for  Charles 
Evelyn  from  time  to  time.  "Anyhow  I  can  tell  you 
where  they  are  without  going  round.  You've  forgot- 
ten to  send  them  to  the  wash  and  consequently  they 
haven't  come  back  from  it.  You'll  find  them — lots  of 
them — in  your  clothes  basket.  It's  not  the  slightest 
use  expecting  Malyon  to  valet  you  because  he  never 
even  valeted  Philip.  You'd  better  wire  to  Fraser  at 
once.  Then  he'll  come  up  in  a  puff -puff  and  put  them 
in  a  bag  and  by  and  by  you'll  get  them  back  nice 
and  clean." 

"That'll  do,"  said  Evelyn.  "I'm  too  depressed  to 
hit  you  except  in  self-defence,  but  I  shall  have  to  do 
it  if  you  go  on  much  longer.  Human  nature  cannot 
stand  the  strain  of  George  Dent  trying  to  be  witty. 
I  came  to  have  a  business  talk  with  you  and  you've  put 
it  all  out  of  my  head."  He  paused  to  fling  the  re- 
mains of  his  apple  violently  out  of  the  window.  "I 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  85 

do  wish  you  wouldn't  give  me  apples  that  have  mag- 
gots in.  I've  eaten  two-thirds  of  it." 

"Two-thirds  of  the  apple?" 

"No,  of  the  maggot.  And  I  want  to  talk  about 
Kitty." 

"I  know,"  said  Dent  quickly.  He  had  not  been 
Evelyn's  friend  for  nearly  thirty  years  without  com- 
ing to  understand  when  Evelyn's  waywardness  was 
mere  waywardness  and  when  it  covered  some  sort  of 
distress,  shyness  or  modesty:  and  Dent's  instinct 
like  Kitty's  wras  to  soothe  that  distress  at  any  cost. 
"I  know,  old  man — Kitty  told  me.  You're  going  to 
carry  her  off.  I  shall  hate  losing  her,  but  I'd  rather 
give  her  to  you  than  to  anyone  else."  Face  to  face 
with  Evelyn  he  could  say  it  sincerely. 

"I  fancied  you  didn't  much  care  for  me  in  the 
quality  of  Kitty's  husband." 

Well,  who  would  have  suspected  Evelyn  of  guess- 
ing that?  There  were  no  limits  either  to  his  stupidity 
or  to  his  shrewdness.  Dent  could  have  sworn  that  he 
had  never  betrayed  his  qualms  before  Evelyn;  how 
could  he  have  done  so,  when  in  Evelyn's  presence  he 
ceased  to  feel  them?  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Don't  be  fanciful.  I  can't  imagine  Kitty's  marrying 
anyone  but  you." 

"Nor  can  I,"  said  Evelyn  candidly.  "But  the  in- 
evitable isn't  always  the  ideal.  I'm  not.  .  .  I 
shan't.  .  .  ." 

"Take  your  time,  old  fellow,"  said  Dent  smiling  at 
him. 

He  liked  the  quiet  dignity  of  Evelyn's  answer,  so 
frank  and  grave  under  the  visible  nervous  strain. 
There  must  be  better  stuff  in  him  than  one  sometimes 


86  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

gave  him  credit  for:  less  childishness,  harder  fibre, 
greater  self -control. 

"I  love  Kitty,  and  I  know  she  loves  me,  and  I  mean 
to  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy.  But  there  is  some 
ground  for  your  fears.  Artists — and  I  am  one  if  I'm 
anything  at  all — are  a  self -centered  lot.  I  don't  think 
much  of  myself  as  a  husband  for  any  woman." 

Dent  turned  round  with  his  back  to  Evelyn  and  fixed 
his  expressionless,  clear,  blue  eyes  on  the  fire. 
"There's  only  one  question  I  should  like  to  ask  you. 
May  I?" 

"Anything." 

"Are  you  in  any  way  entangled  with  any  other 
woman?" 

"Now  or  in  the  past?" 

"Now,"  said  Dent  hastily. 

"No,  on  my  honour."  Dent  raised  his  head  with  a 
quick  sigh  as  if  relieved  of  a  weight.  "Not  a  soul 
now  or  for  two  or  three  years  gone  by.  In  fact  so 
far  as  that  goes  there  hasn't  been  much  at  any  time 
that  I  shouldn't  care  to  tell  Kitty ;  and  I  did  offer  to 
tell  her  what  there  is,  but  she  declined  to  listen.  No, 
that's  not  where  I'm  so  conscious  of  shortcomings!" 
He  raised  his  eyes,  the  eyes  of  Selwyn  Yarborough's 
painting,  melancholy  and  wistful,  clear  yet  veiled. 
"But  what's  the  good  of  my  saying  this  to  you? 
Haven't  you  known  me  all  my  life  and  better  than 
anyone  else  does?  You've  always  known  what  a  fool 
I  am.  I  ought  to  drop  it — 'that  sort  of  thing  ceases  to 
have  any  charm  when  you're  nearing  the  thirties — but 
I  can't,  I  always  forget.  Look  at  my  taking  Kitty  up 
into  the  Hunting  Tower  yesterday !" 

"She  took  herself,"  said  Dent  drily. 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  87 

"I  ought  to  have  stopped  her." 

"Ought  you?  well,  we  all  of  us  ought  to  do  a  lot 
of  things  we  don't  do.  It's  no  use  crying  over  spilt 
milk ;  and  on  my  conscience,  Eve,  I  don't  believe  you 
can  help  it — or  Kitty  either;  it's  six  of  one  and 
half  a  dozen  of  the  other,  and  no  power  on  earth 
would  put  sense  into  either  of  you  or  keep  you  out 
of  mischief.  So  long  as  you  do  nothing  worse  than 
risk  your  own  life  or  Kitty's  I  shan't  grumble.  Be- 
sides, you  can't  always  be  such  a  lunatic  as  you  are 
now ;  when  you  have  Fraser  to  send  your  shirts  to  the 
wash  and  Kitty  to  darn  your  breeks  and  six  children 
all  down  with  measles  to  teach  you  the  value  of 
money — "  he  paused :  this  was  trenching  on  forbidden 
ground.  "I've  no  doubt  the  pair  of  you  will  sober 
down  after  a  bit.  So  long  as  you  aren't  unfaithful  to 
her:  that's  what  would  hit  her  hardest,  and  that's 
what  I  most  fear  in  you."  Evelyn  smiled.  It  was  a 
piece  of  life's  irony  that  Dent's  fears  should  concen- 
trate on  the  one  risk  Kitty  would  never  run.  "Oh, 
you  may  laugh  now !  But  you're  such  a  scatterbrained 
chap:  and  everyone  knows  that  artists  are  a  loose- 
living  lot.  You  don't  mind  my  speaking  out?  We've 
come  pretty  close  together  before  now :  and  so  did  our 
fathers  before  us." 

"A  link  in  the  chain?" 

"Chain,  what  chain?"  said  Dent,  at  fault. 

"That's  what  Kitty  said.  You  and  she  are  alike 
at  times  for  all  your  thick  head.  I  wish  I  had  the 
same  picturesque  sentiment,  but  I'm  as  indifferent 
to  my  fathers  as  to  my  children!  However,  I'll  try 
to  take  care  of  the  Kitty-wee  if  you'll  give  her  to  me?" 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Dent  without  conscious 


88  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

inconsistency.  He  stretched  out  his  broad  palm,  and 
Evelyn,  still  thrown  anyhow  across  his  chair,  put  his 
thin  fingers  into  it  and  smiled  up  at  his  friend.  He 
was  less  shy  with  Dent  than  with  anyone  else.  The 
restless  mind  found  rest  on  the  bosom  of  that  thought- 
ful, calm,  shrewd,  and  unimaginative  loyalty.  Blessed 
are  the  friends  who  neither  fail  us,  nor  understand ! 

Dent  too  was  moved  by  his  own  evocation  of  the 
past  with  all  that  it  implied,  the  grace  and  delicacy 
of  the  younger  man  pointing  a  distinction  of  which 
the  elder  was  in  that  moment  piercingly  aware.  He 
held  Evelyn's  hand  lightly  and  respectfully.  "It's  a 
bit  of  a  come-down,"  he  said  without  affectation,  "for 
an  Evelyn  to  marry  a  Dent." 

"Oh,  la-la!    Oh,  by  Jove!" 

Evelyn's  gravity  put  on  for  the  occasion  gave  way 
before  this  unexpected  turn.  He  got  up  out  of  his 
chair,  instantly  letting  fall  the  Telegraph,  and  sat 
on  the  windowsill  laughing  at  Dent  with  every  feature 
of  his  handsome,  careless  face.  "Mon  petit  bonhomme 
de  Georges,  you  and  your  feudal  tradition!  I  wish 
you  would  inoculate  Kitty  with  it,  wouldn't  she  be  a 
pearl  among  wives?" 

Dent  patted  him  on  the  shoulder.  "You  run  home 
and  change  your  trousers." 


CHAPTER  VI 

EDMUND  MEREDITH,  who  was  the  most  inti- 
mate of  Evelyn's  London  friends,  had  a  service 
flat  in  Streets  Mews,  where  he  lived  in  what 
he  described  as  modest  comfort.  He  had  no  profes- 
sion, but  did  a  good  deal  of  musical  criticism  for 
various  journals — a  column  of  London  notes  for  one, 
foreign  critiques  for  a  second,  and  so  on;  and  pos- 
sessing a  knack  of  style,  masculine  and  polished  if 
a  trifle  precious,  and  a  wide  acquaintance  with  music 
and  musicians,  he  could  always  find  a  market  for 
his  wares.  He  called  himself  an  amateur  penman — 
"a  mere  dabbler,"  but  "You,  an  amateur?"  was  the 
proper  reply.  Unfortunately,  for  some  reason  which 
he  never  could  fathom,  veteran  journalists  like  Wright 
and  Hurst  showed  an  inclination  to  take  him  at  his 
word !  Wright's  chaff  was  merely  irritating,  because 
he  did  not  like  Wright;  but  he  did  wish  sometimes 
that  old  Hurst  would  not  eye  him  with  such  a  kindly 
tolerant  smile.  Meredith  liked  Hurst,  and  would 
have  given  a  good  deal  to  be  on  even  terms  with  him. 
But  there  seemed  to  be  a  barrier,  impalpable,  impass- 
able: strange! 

Meredith's  rooms  were  wide  and  warm  and  not,  like 
Evelyn's,  overcrowded  with  furniture.  With  their 
parquet  floors,  their  white  walls  and  ceilings,  and  the 
absence  of  carpet  or  curtain,  they  suggested  a  good 
deal  of  foreign,  possibly  Spanish  experience.  Any 
edge  of  English  chill  was  taken  off  by  the  glow  of 


90  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

hammered  brasswork  and  the  red  of  stamped  leather 
and  the  agreeable  duskiness  of  books  on  oak  shelves. 
On  a  wet  October  evening  it  was  pleasant  to  come  into 
them  out  of  wind  and  rain  and  find  Meredith  alone 
by  the  fire  with  a  morocco  volume  on  his  knee  and  a 
box  of  cigars  on  the  revolving  bookcase  beside  him. 
Entering"  unannounced  and  without  even  the  formality 
of  knocking,  Evelyn  sat  down  cross-legged  on  a  Per- 
sian rug  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  warmth 
of  the  flames.  He  had  come  without  an  overcoat; 
the  rain  glittered  on  his  tweed  suit  and  a  drop  or 
two  shone  on  his  hair. 

"Hallo !"  said  Meredith,  observing  with  dry  internal 
amusement  that  Evelyn's  clothes  were  untouched  by 
conventional  signs  of  mourning,  "where  do  you 
spring  from?  I  thought  you  were  still  in  Cambridge- 
shire." 

"No,  I'm  in  town  for  a  day  or  two,  buying  things. 
I've  got  to  go  to  my  tailor's.  And  to  Manton's.  Are 
you  doing  anything  to-morrow?  If  not  I  do  wish  you 
would  come  with  me." 

"To  your  tailor's?" 

"No,  to  Manton's.    I  don't  feel  up  to  it." 

Now  Man  ton  was  a  Regent  Street  jeweler  of  world- 
wide fame.  "I  will  with  pleasure,  but  why?" 

Evelyn  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  crossed  his  legs, 
and  took  a  cigar.  "Jolly  comfortable  rooms  these  are : 
plenty  of  space  in  them.  Mine  are  too  full  of  furni- 
ture. I've  a  good  mind  to  scrap  the  lot.  I  hate  feel- 
ing overcrowded." 

"Match?"  suggested  Meredith.  "—Overcrowding 
is  more  a  matter  of  persons  than  of  furniture.  I 
like  to  be  able  to  move  about  without  knocking  over 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  91 

a  table,  but  the  main  thing  is  having  the  place  to 
oneself." 

Evelyn  moved  restlessly.  "Shall  you  never  marry 
then?'* 

Meredith's  smile  broadened.  A  sheet  of  plate  glass 
would  have  been  more  opaque  to  him  than  Evelyn  at 
that  moment.  So  the  boy  was  meditating  matrimony? 
And  at  close  quarters  apparently  if  he  was  in  town 
to  buy  wedding  presents.  What  a  pity !  It  is  always 
a  pity,  in  Meredith's  opinion,  for  a  man  of  Evelyn's 
temperament  and  profession  to  put  his  neck  into  the 
noose ;  an  artist  needs  freedom — the  mental  and  moral 
elbowroom  that  the  best  of  wives  will  deprive  him  of. 

"By  the  by,  I  wrote  to  you  at  Temple  Evelyn  a 
few  weeks  ago,  but  you  never  answered.  I  hope  you 
had  my  letter?  I  was  so  sorry  to  hear  of  your  trouble." 

"What  trouble?" 

"Your  brother's  death." 

"Oh,  that !"  Evelyn's  tone  was  certainly  inimitable 
in  its  detachment.  The  fraternal  tie  often  means 
little  or  nothing,  and  Meredith  remembered  to  have 
heard  rumours  that  no  love  had  been  lost  between 
the  Evelyn  brothers,  yet  most  men,  he  thought,  would 
have  made  some  concession  in  manner  to  the  etiquette 
of  bereavement.  Evelyn  himself  after  a  moment 
seemed  to  become  aware  of  a  deficiency.  "Yes,  it 
was  a  cruel  business.  Thank  you  so  much  for  writ- 
ing. I  had  your  letter;  I  forgot  I  never  answered  it. 
I've  had  my  hands  full  these  last  few  weeks,  what 
with  lawyers  and  other  worries.  I  had  to  cancel 
some  of  my  autumn  engagements,  too.  You  must  for- 
give me,  I  am  a  careless  chap  but  I'm  not  really  un- 
grateful!" 


92  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

He  smiled  at  Meredith  and  Meredith  returned  Ms 
smile  with  an  involuntary  softening  of  his  rather 
cold  blue  eyes.  A  man  of  many  acquaintances  and 
no  friends,  Meredith  kept  for  Evelyn  a  warmth  of 
feeling  as  near  affection  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  be- 
stow. "It's  that  dash  of  the  woman  in  you  that  makes 
you  so  attractive,"  he  said  to  himself,  definite  as  ever 
in  his  analysis  of  life.  "Hang  it,  I've  known  many 
a  woman  that  hadn't  a  tithe  of  your  charm!  Well, 
what  is  it  you  want?  Evidently  you've  come  here 
for  what  you  can  get,  and  it  suits  my  humour  to 
oblige  you.  Let's  listen  to  the  boy's  confidences,  they 
may  be  amusing  and  they're  safe  to  be  pretty.  What 
an  innocent  face  it  is  for  eight  and  twenty !"  Aloud 
he  said,  "And  what  might  you  be  doing  cliez  Manton, 
young  Evelyn?" 

"Oh,  buying  things." 

"Naturally.  I  did  not  suppose  you  were  going  to 
make  him  a  present!" 

Evelyn  turned  his  face  towards  the  fire,  whose  glow 
was  reflected  on  it  in  a  faint  redness.  His  conversa- 
tion was  not  much  more  disconnected  than  usual,  but 
his  eyes  betrayed  him  at  every  turn.  "Are  you  never 
lonely,  Meredith?" 

"Never.  This  life  suits  me.  I  can  go  out  when 
I  like  and  stay  in  when  I  like.  To-night  you  find  me 
sitting  over  the  fire  with  a  book,  to-morrow  night  I'm 
doing  a  dinner,  a  play,  and  a  dance.  Shall  I  never 
marry?  Well,  one  of  these  days  I  may.  In  the  forties 
or  fifties  one  begins  to  want  a  home  and  youngsters 
growing  up  in  it.  But  you're  not  thirty  yet,  are  you?" 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  woman  you  would  like  to 
marry?" 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  93 

Meredith  shifted  in  his  chair.  "Yes,"  he  said  with 
easy  emphasis.  "Half  a  dozen." 

"Six,  but  not  one?" 

"I  don't  say  that."  He  leant  forward  to  shake  the 
ash  from  his  cigar,  a  nervous  movement:  the  spark 
of  excitement  under  Evelyn's  shy  manner  had  com- 
municated itself  to  the  elder  man,  and  on  his  face 
too  there  was  a  slight  glow.  "One's  had  one's  dreams 
perhaps." 

"Wouldn't  she  have  you?" 

"My  friend,  that  is  one  of  the  questions  that  aren't 
asked!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ten  thousand  times!"  Evelyn 
exclaimed,  coming  out  of  his  abstraction.  "I  never 
meant  to  say  it." 

"I  do  not  mind,  because  in  point  of  fact  I  never 
gave  her  the  chance.  The  .  .  .  affair  .  .  .  such  as  it 
is,  hasn't  matured  yet.  I  may  ask  her  next  year  or 
I  may  not,  when  I  meet  her  in  town  again,  or  it's 
barely  possible  I  may  run  across  her  this  winter;  she 
may  have  gone  off,  in  which  case  I  shall  consider  that 
I've  had  a  lucky  escape,  or  she  may  have  come  on,  and 
then.  .  .  .  But  this  is  all  absolutely  in  the  clouds." 
It  had  been,  till  now :  and  he  marvelled  at  himself  for 
letting  slip  a  hint  of  it,  but  after  all  Evelyn  was  evi- 
dently in  the  same  boat  and  could  not  chaff  him.  And 
this  first  confession  of  a  modest  secret  disengaged  a 
faint  yet  distinct  perfume  of  sensuous  pleasure,  as  if 
the  scent  of  roses  were  diffusing  itself  through  one's 
bachelor  cigar-smoke. 

"What  is  she  like?" 

"Not  so  tall  as  I  am,"  the  soft  accent  of  a  caress 


94  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

was  just  perceptible  in  Meredith's  voice:  "very  fair, 
very  slight." 

"Well,  that  might  be  a  description  of  the  girl  I'm 
going  to  marry,"  said  Evelyn  slowly,  raking  the  fire 
into  a  twinkle  of  flame.  "How  hot  you  keep  your 
rooms  on  a  warm  night  like  this !  You  never  knew  I 
was  engaged,  did  you?  I  have  been  for  years — oh, 
ages:  practically  ever  since  we  were  in  petticoats. 
Since  my  brother  died  we've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  we  may  as  well  bring  it  off  now  as  later  on,  so 
it's  to  be  the  first  week  in  November.  What  I  want 
to  do  at  Manton's  is  to  buy  her  a  wedding  present. 
I  thought  of  diamonds — women  generally  like  dia- 
monds, don't  they?  She's  got  a  dressing  case  already 
and  all  those  sort  of  things.  But  I  can't  afford  more 
than  two  or  three  hundred,  do  you  think  I  could  get 
her  anything  really  decent  for  that?" 

Meredith  arched  his  eyebrows.  Two  or  three  hun- 
dred pounds!  Wasn't  that  Evelyn  all  over?  He  was 
a  far  richer  man  than  Evelyn,  but  fifteen  or  twenty 
would  have  been  his  own  idea  of  a  suitable  price. 
"Oh,  certainly!  If  you  are  hard  up,"  he  said  quite 
gravely,  "you  might  even  cut  it  down  to  a  hundred 
and  fifty." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?  It  runs  into  a  frightful 
lot  of  money,  getting  married ;  there's  the  journey  you 
see — I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  go  somewhere  for  a 
week  or  two,  though  I  do  very  badly  want  to  get  to 
work  again,  this  has  all  been  a  great  interruption. 
And  hotel  bills  for  two  cost  more  than  they  do  for 
one.  Besides,  if  I  were  by  myself  I  should  stay  at 
places  that  one  couldn't  take  a  lady  to." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  95 

"Unfortunately  one  can't  go  for  a  honeymoon  by 
oneself." 

"No:  so  that  I  should  be  glad  to  get  off  for  £150 
if  I  could.  Only  I  do  want  it  to  look  good.  I'd  have 
made  it  a  fender  if  I  could  have  run  to  it.  You  will 
come  round  with  me,  won't  you?  I  haven't  the  re- 
motest notion  what  girls  like." 

Meredith  contemplated  him  as  if  he  were  an  inter- 
esting natural  specimen.  "I  wonder  whether  you'll 
turn  up  in  time  for  the  ceremony.  Who's  going  to 
be  best  man?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind." 

«/f» 

"Yes :  you'd  do  it  so  awfully  well." 

"I  accept  with  pleasure,"  said  Meredith  after  a 
momentary  pause.  "Although  for  a  naturally  in- 
dolent person  like  myself  the  prospect  bristles  with 
alarming  contingencies.  Let  me  review  my  duties: 
item  No.  1  will  be  getting  you  out  of  bed  and  attend- 
ing to  your  toilet.  You  can  brush  your  own  teeth,  I 
suppose,  and  say  your  own  prayers,  but  -I  wonder  if 
you  can  be  trusted  not  to  show  up  in  a  blazer  and  a 
smoking  cap?  Oh,  I  forgot — Fraser  will  be  there  to 
dress  you.  Well,  that  lightens  my  burden.  But  I'm 
to  choose  the  wedding  present  for  the  bride,  it  appears, 
and — have  you  given  her  an  engagement  ring?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Not  yet?  I  understood  you  to  say  you  had  been 
engaged  for  years.  Well,  we'll  get  that  too  at  Man- 
ton's  to-morrow.  It's  a  pity,  for  at  your  rates  it'll 
cut  into  another  £50,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  Perhaps 
I  had  better  take  my  own  cheque  book  along?" 


96  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Happy  thought,"  said  Evelyn  with  levity,  "then  I 
can  make  it  a  fender  after  all !" 

"Then  there's  the  license  to  be  obtained :  or  are  you 
going  to  be  married  by  banns?"  Evelyn  had  not 
considered  the  point.  "Nor  you  haven't  settled  where 
you're  going  for  your  honeymoon?  Has  the  lady  no 
views? — Better  say  the  South  of  France,  then,  or  the 
Italian  Riviera;  I  know  half  a  dozen  jolly  little 
places  that  will  suit  you  to  a  T.  You  can't  go  for 
less  than  a  month,  and  you  can't  stick  it  out  in  Eng- 
land in  November,  it  is  trying  enough — one's  told — 
at  the  best  of  times,  but  honeymooning  in  a  frozen 
drizzle  would  quench  the  ardours  of  a  Romeo.  Yes,  I 
know  you  have  a  playful  way  of  losing  your  connec- 
tions and  your  luggage.  It's  a  pity  I  can't  escort  you, 
at  least  till  the — the  first  stage  of  the  journey  is  safely 
accomplished.  But  don't  be  downcast,  I'll  look  up 
your  trains  for  you  and  take  your  ticket ;  leave  it  all 
to  me — you'll  be  safe  in  my  hands." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  hoped  you'd  say,"  said  Eve- 
lyn gratefully.  "I  felt  sure  you  would  know  all 
about  it  and  so  you  do:  anyone  would  think  you'd 
been  married  half  a  dozen  times  yourself!" 

"It'll  be  a  useful  rehearsal  for  me.  Not  the  first: 
I've  officiated  at  other  weddings  besides  yours."  Mere- 
dith stretched  himself  indolently  and  luxuriously  in 
his  chair.  Evelyn  was  not  apparently  an  ardent  lover, 
but  the  subject  in  itself  was  one  that  fired  Meredith's 
imagination,  strongly  developed  on  the  sensuous  side. 
He  had  never  been  married,  but  of  unofficial  relations 
he  had  had  a  fairly  wide  experience,  and  his  mind 
warmed  to  an  agreeable  glow  of  memories  mingling 
with  anticipations.  He  leaned  forward  and  lightly 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  97 

dropped  a  hand  on  Evelyn's  knee.  "You're  not  effusive, 
are  you?  As  a  rule  one  has  more  than  enough  of 
Komeo's  raptures.  But  now  .  .  .  since  we're  shep- 
herds both,  you  might  expand  a  bit.  Is  she  pretty, 
Eve,  old  boy?" 

"Very." 

"By  Jove,  I  envy  you.  You're  a  lucky  chap.  But 
so  you  always  were.  ...  By  the  by,  what  will  Sophy 
say?" 

"Sophy?" 

"Yes — won't  she  cut  up  rather  rough?" 

Evelyn  lifted  his  eyes,  wide  in  non-comprehension. 
"What  on  earth  should  Sophy  have  to  say  to  my  get- 
ting married,  one  way  or  the  other?" 

"Haven't  you  told  her?" 

"No — I  haven't  seen  her  since  it  was  settled.  I've 
only  been  in  town  a  few  hours.  Why  should  I  see 
her?" 

"I  think  I  would  if  I  were  you.  Sophy  has  French 
blood  in  her,  you  know:  a  quick  temper  and  a  devil 
of  a  lot  of  temperament.  She's  a  sensible  girl  and 
I  don't  doubt  it'll  be  all  right  if  you  put  it  to  her 
straight,  but  I  shouldn't  leave  her  to  find  it  out  by 
hearsay — if  I  were  you." 

"But,  Meredith,  I  haven't  an  idea  what  you  mean ! 
You  seem  to  be  hinting — " 

"Should  you  call  it  hinting?"  Meredith's  voice  was 
suave.  "I'm  giving  you  good  advice.  For  that's  one 
of  the  fences  you  must  take  for  yourself — the  duties 
of  a  best  man  don't  include  breaking  the  news  to  the 
Sophy  of  the  moment.  If  they  did  I  should  scratch. 
Now  shall  we  change  the  subject?" 

"But,  Meredith,  Sophy  is  nothing  to  me!" 


98  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Meredith  laughed  at  him. 

"But  she  is  not!"  said  Evelyn.  "Did  you  believe 
that?  Do  the  others  think  it— Hurst,  Leslie  Wright? 
Is  it  the  common  gossip?  It  is  an  insult  to  Sophy 
and  to  me."  He  sprang  out  of  his  chair  and  stood 
before  Meredith,  his  eyes  flashing  in  what  Meredith 
considered  a  very  Evelyn-ish  display  of  unnecessary 
heat.  "That  poor  little  girl !  Because  she  lives  alone 
and  because  I  go  up  to  see  her  now  and  again,  does 
it  follow  that  there's  any  beastly  connection  of  that 
kind  between  us?  I  know  she  went  wrong  in  Paris. 
But  before  heaven,  since  she's  been  in  town,  so  far  as 
I  know  the  child  has  kept  absolutely  straight." 

Meredith  eyed  him  long  and  curiously.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  accept  your  word  for  it,  Eve,  of  course: 
at  least  so  far  as  you're  concerned.  For  Sophy.  .  .  . 
It's  very  difficult  for  a  girl  of  that  type  to  escape  from 
her  associations.  Once  her  passions  are  aroused,  a 
woman  generally  finds  it  harder  to  keep  straight  than 
we  do.  That  at  least  is  my  experience.  And  of  course 
there's  no  question  of  immaculate  virtue  in  this  case ; 
I  could  name  you  half  a  dozen  men  who  were  her 
lovers  in  Paris;  Millerand  for  one,  and  for  another 
.  .  .  Never  mind  that  now.  But  I've  always  taken 
for  granted  that  you  were  her  lover  here.  Why  else  did 
she  set  up  house  alone  in  Chelsea?  What  sort  of  life 
is  that  for  a  girl  like  Sophy,  accustomed  to  any  amount 
of  excitement  and  admiration?  It  seemed  obvious 
that  she  wasn't  really  living  alone,  and  there  was  no 
one  else  available  but  you.  But  apparently  the  idea 
comes  on  you  as  a  thunderclap!  She  followed  you 
from  Paris,  didn't  she?" 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  99 

"She  came  over  when  I  did.  That's  not  to  say  she 
followed  me." 

"And  she  camped  in  Endsleigh  Gardens  when  you 
were  in  Victoria  Street,  and  moved  her  rooms  when 
you  moved  yours?  Upon  my  soul,  Evelyn,  you  are  too 
innocent  for  this  world!  How  could  you  fancy  it 
wouldn't  be  said?  And,  for  that  matter,  what  on 
earth  does  it  signify?" 

"Because  I'm  going  to  be  married." 

Meredith  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Besides,  and  far  more,  there's  Sophy  to  be  con- 
sidered. It's  just  this  sort  of  thing  that  makes  it  so 
hard  for  women  to  get  back  their  self-respect — to 
escape,  as  you  said,  from  bad  associations.  To  my 
mind,  the  man  who  lightly  spreads  a  rumour  like  this 
is  not  much  less  to  blame  than  the  man  who  originally 
pushes  a  girl  down  into  the  mire." 

He  brought  the  colour  into  Meredith's  cheek. 
"Thanks,  Eve!" 

"Oh,  Meredith,  I  didn't  mean  you!"  Evelyn  ex- 
claimed remorsefully.  He  dropped  back  into  his 
chair,  the  shadow  clearing  from  his  eyes.  "Of  course 
I  know  it  wasn't  you  who  started  the  gossip !  You 
repeated  it  believing  it  to  be  true,  and  that  only  to 
me,  because  you  wanted  to  warn  me.  It's  the  other 
men — Oh,  one  knows  them  well  enough,  the  sort  of 
fellows  who  enjoy  inventing  these  beastly  lies.  But 
if  anyone  repeats  it  in  your  hearing  do  hit  him  for 
me,  will  you?  or  let  me  know  and  I'll  hit  him  myself! 
I  should  hate  it  if  it  came  to  Sophy's  ears— or  Kitty's." 

"Kitty's?" 

"The  girl  I'm  going  to  marry." 

Meredith  sat  silent  for  a  minute,  then  got  up  and 


100  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

poured  some  whisky  into  a  tumbler.  "By  the  by,  you've 
never  told  me  her  name,"  he  said,  standing  with  his 
back  to  Evelyn  and  adding  his  soda  water  with  a 
sparing  hand. 

"Miss  Dent — Kitty  Dent.  You've  met  her,  haven't 
you?  She  was  in  London  for  last  season." 

«Er — yes,  I've  met  her.     I  congratulate  you." 

"I've  known  her  all  my  life.  They  live  close  to 
Temple  Evelyn,  and  her  brother  is  a  great  chum  of 
mine,  the  best  I've  ever  had.  You  saw  him — George 
Dent — the  night  he  came  round  to  my  rooms  to  tell 
me  of  Philip's  death." 

"I  was  at  Cambridge  with  him.  I  know  him  well, 
and  Miss  Dent  too.  But  I  never  connected  her  with 
you.  Silly  of  me,  because  I  knew  she  lived  near  Cam- 
bridge." One  of  those  odd  lapses  into  which  men  fall 
when  their  minds  are  riveted  on  one  aspect  of  a 
situation:  all  the  links  of  the  chain  had  lain  before 
him,  yet  he  had  never  put  them  together.  "Cer- 
tainly she  is  very  pretty,  Evelyn.  Yes,  you're  a  lucky 
devil." 

And  did  not  seem  to  appreciate  his  luck,  Meredith 
reflected,  in  a  spasm  of  such  grinding  rage  that  he 
could  hardly  keep  a  straight  face.  Till  then  he  had 
not  known  how  much  he  wanted  Kitty  Dent.  Kitty 
had  truly  judged  him  as  one  of  the  men  who  never 
risk  the  indignity  of  a  refusal.  His  icy  pride  had 
let  her  go,  believing  that  he  had  made  some  impres- 
sion on  her  but  not  enough,  and  that  six  months  of 
rural  seclusion  would  do  more  for  his  cause  than  any 
pressure  he  could  yet  bring  to  bear.  He  had  meant 
to  go  to  Cambridgeshire  in  the  spring  if  she  did  not 
appear  in  town  ...  or  perhaps  earlier,  in  the  winter, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  101 

instead  of  going  to  hunt  with  the  Whaddon  Chase 
.  .  .  and  in  one  sickening  flash  after  another  it  was 
borne  in  on  him  that  he  had  never  meant  to  wait  till 
next  season.  He  had  been  sub-consciously  counting 
the  days  to  the  limit  he  had  set  himself,  November  at 
earliest.  • 

Well,  he  had  waited  too  long.  He  had  reckoned  on 
the  absence  of  men  from  the  average  English  country 
neighbourhood,  and  the  result  was  that  he  found  him- 
self engaged  to  be  Evelyn's  groomsman  at  Kitty's 
wedding ! 

Nine-tenths  of  Meredith's  mind  was  blinding  storm, 
the  tenth  was  dispassionate  enough  to  reflect  that  one 
always  wants  a  woman  more  when  one  cannot  get 
her.  He  had  had  so  many  agreeable  but  inexacting 
liaisons,  lightly  formed  and  lightly  broken,  that  it  was 
not  likely  he  was  so  much  in  love  as — as  he  felt  as 
if  he  were;  probably  nine-tenths  of  it  was  jealousy 
and  irritation  and  a  festering  prick  of  shame.  In 
that  case  he  would  get  over  it  the  sooner.  At  all 
events  he  had  not  given  himself  away!  Suppose  in 
his  imbecile  confidences  he  had  had  the  fatuity  to 
mention  names?  He  had  been  on  the  brink  of  it: 
and  tremblingly  Meredith  thanked  his  stars  that  he 
was  spared  that  last  appalling  and  irretrievable  faux 
pas !  Yes,  it  might  have  been  a  thousand  times  worse. 

As  for  the  wedding,  if  one  could  not  get  out  of  it, 
one  could  always  go  through  with  it:  yes,  and  would 
do  so,  sooner  than  run  the  faintest  risk  of  betrayal ! 
Meredith  knew  his  own  powers  of  dissimulation, 
which  were  considerable,  and  could  trust  himself  to 
play  out  any  game  without  showing  his  hand.  Yes, 
he  would  choose  Kitty's  jewels  and  arrange  her  honey- 


102  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

moon,  though  at  the  moment  he  hated  Evelyn  as  he 
had  never  hated  anyone  before  in  his  life.  Arrange 
her  honeymoon!  .  .  .  Meredith  poured  out  more 
whisky  and  set  the  glass  down  empty.  Absurd !  what 
he  felt  was,  must  be,  mainly  jealousy  of  Evelyn  and 
injured  pride,  though  it  elected  to  masquerade  as  this 
insufferable  ache  of  desire. 

He  sauntered  back  to  his  chair  and  dropped  his 
hand  again  on  Evelyn's  knee.  "Certainly  I  congratu- 
late you,  Eve.  To  get  out  of  London  in  November  is 
jolly  enough  in  any  case,  but  to  put  in  one's  time  at 
Levanto  in  such  agreeable  circumstances  is  a  fate 
the  gods  might  envy.  Claret  and  roses  and  Kitty 
Dent!  Happy  man." 

"Luckier  than  I  deserve,"  said  Evelyn,  looking  up 
at  Meredith  with  his  wistful  eyes.  "I'm  not  half  good 
enough  for  her.  I  suppose  most  men  feel  that  when 
it  comes  to  the  point,  but  I  do  wish  I  weren't  such  a 
fool  in  some  ways.  I  say.  .  .  ."  He  hesitated.  Mere- 
dith wondered  what  was  coming  next.  "About  that 
cheque  book  of  yours.  .  .  .?"  finished  Evelyn  with  a 
graceful  diffidence. 

So  that  was  what  was  coming  next!  Meredith  had 
lent  Evelyn  small  sums  from  time  to  time,  it  was 
a  privilege  that  most  of  Evelyn's  friends  enjoyed: 
they  had  all  been  repaid,  or  nearly  all — Meredith 
was  a  better  man  of  business  than  Evelyn  and  entered 
every  such  transaction  in  his  pocketbook,  even  down 
to  half  a  crown  for  a  cab  fare — but  at  all  events  Eve- 
lyn always  paid  unless  he  forgot. 

"I  know  you  were  joking,"  Evelyn  explained :  "but 
if  you  really  wouldn't  mind — ?  It  is  so  beastly  to  be 
short  of  money  when  you're  traveling  with  a  lady." 


GLAIR  DEi  LUNE  103 

"How  much?" 

"A  couple  of  hundred  would  raise  me  out  of  the 
reach  of  want." 

Meredith  drew  his  hand  away  with  a  jerk.  A  ten 
pound  note  now  and  again  one  didn't  grudge,  but  to 
be  touched  for  £200,  which  one  might  never  see 
again — !  £200?  the  precise  sum  that  Evelyn  proposed 
to  spend  on  Kitty's  jewels !  Meredith  perceived  that 
her  diamonds  were  to  come  out  of  his  purse.  Born 
to  a  keen  sense  of  money  values,  Evelyn's  airy  reck- 
lessness was  incomprehensible  to  him.  He  laughed, 
it  was  a  scene  from  a  musical  comedy:  even  to  him, 
'its  piquancy  was  well  worth  two  hundred.  Piquancy 
with  a  relish  of  danger! 

"Shall  we  make  it  guineas?" 

Arithmetic  was  never  Evelyn's  strong  point. 

"That's  £220,  isn't  it?  Oh,  Meredith,  you're  what 
I  call  a  friend  worth  having!" 

Rising,  Meredith  leant  his  arm  along  the  mantel- 
piece and  dropped  his  forehead  on  his  hand.  Yes,  this 
pleasant  glow  of  condescension  was  well  worth  the 
price!  Yet,  though  his  vanity  was  soothed  and  his 
anger  had  begun  to  die  down,  he  still  felt  the  deadly 
weariness  that  seemed  to  take  all  colour  out  of  life: 
for,  lax  or  not,  Evelyn  was  his  friend,  and  the  most 
unsuspicious  fellow  on  earth.  "How  young  you  are, 
Eve,"  he  said  in  his  indolent  voice,  Just  touched  with 
the  affectation  that  was  by  now  a  part  of  his  nature, 
"and,  confound  you,  how  very  disarming!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

"•w  -jr  THAT  a  relic  of  barbarism  is  a  wedding!" 
\/ \f  Charles  Evelyn  was  saying  a  fortnight 
*  *  later.  "Here  we  are  figged  out  in  the  very 
best  war-paint,  with  enough  rice  in  our  hair  to  make 
a  pudding  for  a  family,  and  a  white  satin  shoe  tied  on 
behind  to  advertise  to  a  jeering  world  that  we're  go- 
ing to  begin  our  married  life  in  a  rotten  foreign  hotel 
where  they  feed  you  on  pastry  and  you  can't  get  a 
coal  fire!  I  hate  pretending  to  be  an  agreeable  rattle 
when  I  feel  hangdog.  Kate !  when  you  got  out  of  bed 
this  morning,  didn't  you  wish  you  were  going  to  be 
shot?" 

"O  no,"  said  Kitty,  "I  enjoyed  it  all  very  much." 
On  their  expensive  and  (thanks  to  Kitty  and  the 
best  man )  faultlessly  organised  wedding  the  sun  had 
not  shone.  It  was  a  mild,  grey,  sodden  November 
afternoon.  "Rain  before  seven,  fine  before  eleven," 
Kitty  had  said  when  she  awoke  to  weeping  skies; 
but  they  had  wept  without  intermission  till  one 
o'clock.  At  two,  when  she  alighted  near  the  church 
door,  their  drizzle  had  subsided  into  a  gloom,  warm 
but  penetratingly  damp,  which  reduced  the  whole 
landscape  to  a  uniform  tinge  of  dim,  dusky  brown. 
There  was  not  a  rift  in  the  fawn-coloured  marbling 
of  cloud  to  show  where  the  sun's  grave  was;  not  a 
breath  of  wind  fluttered  the  last  ivory  leaf  or  two 
that  hung  on  walnut  or  lime:  only  now  and  again 
one  was  detached  by  its  own  weight  of  raindrops,  and 

104 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  105 

fell  almost  vertically  from  wet  branch  into  wet 
meadow  grass  or  weedy  stream. 

Sombre  too  the  old  church  with  its  Perpendicular 
traceries  and  faded  brickwork,  its  hatchments  that 
hung  over  the  altar  promising  "In  Coelo  Quies,"  and 
its  tomb,  beloved  of  Kitty's  childhood,  commemorating 
the  virtues  of  a  lady  who  died  of  a  lingering  distemper, 
resigned  to  the  will  of  God  in  spite  of  the  tempta- 
tions of  a  great  Fortune,  at  the  tender  age  of  twelve. 
Like  the  majority  of  English  country  churches,  it  was 
steeped  in  the  sentiment  of  the  past,  and  for  Kitty 
on  her  bridal  day  the  past  was  nearer  than  the  present 
— it  was  almost  an  oppression:  she  could  remember 
so  many  Sundays  when  insecurely  poised  on  three 
hassocks  in  the  high  Manor  Farm  pew  she  had  peeped 
over  it  for  a  glimpse  of  Evelyn's  bronze  head,  or 
Philip's  stately  height  and  carven  profile,  in  the  even 
taller  pew  that  bore  the  Evelyn  arms:  while  winter 
rains  washed  the  armorial  windows,  or  the  sun  on 
June  evenings  put  out  the  pulpit  candleshine. 

But,  once  out  of  church,  no  November  gloom  had 
been  allowed  to  damp  the  spirits  of  the  bridal  pair — 
Evelyn  correct,  cordial,  and  gay,  Kitty  serene  in 
sapphires  and  Limerick  lace,  distinguished  by  her 
rosebloom  and  her  finished  air  as  of  a  French  minia- 
ture, incapable  of  the  agitations  to  which  less  discip- 
lined brides  give  way.  She  had  not  wept,  except  two 
little  tears  in  the  vestry,  which  Selwyn  Yarborough 
said  made  her  "paintable";  he  meant  perhaps  that 
without  them  she  might  have  wanted  the  last  soften- 
ing grace  of  womanhood.  Now,  sitting  by  Evelyn  in 
Meredith's  car  on  her  way  to  the  station  and  the 
Calais  night  mail,  and  dressed  in  pale  grey  cloth  and  a 


106  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

tiny  chinchilla  cap  with  a  grey  and  silver  traveling 
veil  flung  over  it,  she  retained  her  cameo  delicacy, 
her  brightness,  and  her  verve. 

"I'm  sorry  if  you  would  really  rather  have  been 
married  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  it  would 
have  been  a  horrid  scramble  and  you  never  would 
have  got  up  in  time.  Even  Mr.  Meredith  never  would 
have  decanted  you  at  that  hour  for  such  a — a — an  un- 
congenial engagement." 

"Kitty,  have  you  rouge  on?" 

"A  wee  scrap.  Can  you  see  it?  Dear,  dear!  and 
I  was  so  careful  over  it — I  quite  thought  it  wouldn't 
show." 

"It  doesn't,  only  your  natural  bloom  is  never  the 
same  for  two  minutes  together;  you  vary  more  than 
any  other  woman  I  know.  You  couldn't  go  two  hours 
without  turning  either  white  or  pink.  Eub  it  off. 
You've  just  promised  to  obey,  so  now  you  can  begin." 

Kitty,  docile,  put  back  her  veil  and  rubbed  her  cheek 
with  her  handkerchief.  "It  won't  come  off  without 
water,"  she  said  soberly,  exhibiting  the  spotless  cam- 
bric. "It's  the  very  best  rouge." 

"For  two  pins  I'd  lick  it  off,"  said  Evelyn.  "You'd 
have  to  let  me  if  I  said  you  were  to,  even  as  Deborah 
obeyed  Abraham.  Oh  no,  I've  hit  it,  give  me  your 
little  nosewipe."  He  leant  out  of  the  car  and  dipped 
it  into  a  wet  wayside  tangle  of  clematis  and  briony, 
scattering  a  shower  of  brilliant  drops.  "Soap  out  of 
your  dressing  case.  ..."  He  washed  his  wife's  face 
all  over  and  firmly :  it  was  none  the  paler  for  the  re- 
moval of  her  precautionary  rouge.  "Now  Othello's 
himself  again,"  Evelyn  finished,  putting  Kitty's  damp 
and  pink  handkerchief  into  his  own  pocket.  "Pray 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  107 

what  is  the  fun  of  taking  all  this  trouble  to  get  mar- 
ried if  I  can't  even  make  you  blush?" 

"Eve!     Eve!" 

"Yes  indeed,  it  is  Eve  and  no  mistake,"  said  Evelyn 
gravely.  "Did  you  think  it  was  George? — I  say,  Kitty 
Evelyn,  have  I  been  a  frightful  brute  to  you  to-day? 
I  seem  to  have  neglected  you  somehow.  One  goes 
through  such  a  fuss  getting  married,  one's  inclined 
to  overlook  the  bride.  But  the  next  four  weeks  will 
be  devoted  entirely  to  making  amends.  I  do  wish 
we  weren't  going  to  the  Riviera  all  the  same.  It's  so 
banal :  and  you  can't  pretend  to  be  doing  anything  but 
honeymoon,  because  no  chap  would  have  leisure  to 
go  off  there  in  November,  unless  he  were  an  I.  R.  or 
a  cot  case.  Besides,  I'm  always  sick  for  three  days 
after  crossing." 

"Well !  but  it  was  you  who  proposed  the  Riviera — 
I  didn't  particularly  want  to  go  abroad,  not  a  bit,  I 
like  England  better.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before?" 

"I  didn't  propose  it.  Meredith  proposed  it.  He  said 
it  was  the  proper  thing  after  an  orange-blossom  show. 
You  none  of  you  objected,  so  I  let  it  go  at  that,  and 
he  took  the  tickets  for  me  (yes,  I  have  them  in  my 
pocketbook,  antedated) ,  and  wrote  to  an  hotel.  After 
all  I  dare  say  it  won't  be  so  bad  when  we  get  there." 

"But,  Eve,  don't  let's  go!" 

"Not  go?" 

"Why  should  we  if  we  don't  want  to?" 

"Meredith  said  we  were  to.  Wouldn't  it  look  rather 
queer  if  we  didn't  after  all?" 

"Queer?  My  dear  child,  some  one  has  been  putting 
ideas  into  your  head!  When  did  you  ever  wait  to 


108  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

think  whether  a  thing  was  or  wasn't  'queer'  before?" 

"I  promised  Meredith  to  get  the  honeymoon  over  be- 
fore I  went  adrift." 

"It  isn't  going  adrift  if  you  take  me  too,"  said  Kitty. 
"I  didn't  propose  that  I  should  go  to  the  Riviera  and 
you  stay  behind !"  She  gave  her  clear  silvery  trill  of 
laughter.  "That  would  be  not  only  queer  but  dull. 
But  I  can't  have  you  feeling  bound  to  do  what  you 
don't  want  to  do  just  because  you've  married  me. 
Don't  let's  cross  if  you're  going  to  be  sick;  besides, 
I've  never  crossed  before — I  might  be  sick  too !" 

"In  that  case  we  could  be  economical,  share  a  basin 
and  halve  the  tip." 

"The  baleful  influence  of  matrimony!  Oh,  when 
did  you  ever  consider  economy  before?" 

"But  there  isn't  anywhere  to  go  in  England  except 
Brighton;  and,  besides,  English  hotel  pianos  are 
worse  than  foreign  ones.  No  one  can  call  me  faddy 
but  I  do  prefer  the  bass  and  treble  to  be  in  the  same 
key." 

"You  can't  expect  to  find  a  hotel  piano  to  your 
liking.  If  you  want  to  make  music  you  had  better  go 
home  to  Chelsea  on  the  spot."  An  indefinable  shade 
flitted  over  Evelyn's  face,  "Oh,  and  I  believe  you  do ! 
You  haven't  touched  a  piano  to  speak  of  since  you 
came  to  Temple  Evelyn."  She  lifted  Evelyn's  hands 
and  turned  up  the  finger-tips.  "Are  they  feeling  hun- 
gry? Poor  hands!  Evelyn,  would  there  be  room  for — 
for  me  too  in  Chelsea?" 

"Room,  oh!  oceans  of  room,"  his  eyes  had  begun 
to  sparkle:  "but,  my  darling,  that's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. When  I'm  at  Chelsea  I  work  all  day  and  all 
night.  That  would  be  so  exciting  for  you,  wouldn't 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  100 

it?  No,  we'll  go  to  Levanto  like  good  children  and 
you  shall  have  your  little  holiday,  all  among  the  roses 
and  the  lilies  and  the  Canterbury  bells — " 

"Give  me  the  tickets,"  said  Kitty. 

She  opened  his  coat,  drew  the  Aladdin-carpets  daint- 
ily out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  tore  them  into  four 
pieces,  and  tossed  them  through  the  window.  "Now 
you  can  tell  Mr.  Meredith  it  wasn't  your  fault." 

Evelyn,  being  Evelyn,  followed  the  fragments  with 
a  regretful  eye.  "We  should  have  had  ripping  weather 
out  there  anyhow.  It  would  have  been  a  joy  to  get 
away  from  this  confounded  rain." 

Kitty  laughed  again,  throwing  back  her  small  head 
and  exposing  a  throat  as  soft  as  a  child's.  "Incor- 
rigible !  Will  you  never,  never  learn  that  in  this  life 
you  can't  have  your  cake  and  eat  it  too?  Cheer  up, 
we  shall  have  a  heavenly  time  in  Chelsea.  You  can 
make  music  all  day  long  while  I  read  or  sew,  and  in 
the  evenings  we  can  put  on  old  clothes  and  have  sup- 
per in  Soho,  or  go  to  a  'Prom.'  in  the  two-shilling 
seats  where  they  won't  know  you.  Wouldn't  it  be 
fun  to  stand  in  a  queue  and  pay  at  the  door,  just  like 
anybody  else?  Fraser  will  do  for  us — he  won't  ap- 
prove, but  I'm  convinced  I  can  get  round  Fraser. 
We  can  ask  people  in  to  coffee  sometimes — Mr.  Hurst, 
or  that  handsome  painter  boy,  or  any  other  men  you 
like  that  won't  give  us  away.  And  sometimes  before 
breakfast  we  might  hire  ponies  and  ride  in  the  Row. 
It  will  be  like  the  Arabian  Nights." 

"But  you  can't  really  like  that  so  well  as  the 
Riviera?" 

"The  Riviera  was  banal,"  said  Kitty  serenely.  "I 
felt  that  myself.  This  will  be  a  far,  far  better  thing 


110  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

to  do.  When  it  comes  out  everyone  will  say  'Just  like 
Kitty—just  like  Eve.' " 

"Hang  it!"  Evelyn  touched  the  white-rose-petal 
throat  with  his  finger-tips,  "this  is  a  way  of  going  for 
a  honeymoon  that  takes  my  fancy." 

She  brushed  him  off  as  if  it  had  been  a  tickling  fly. 
"Don't !  I  mayn't  be  a  great  Grenadier  of  a  person, 
but  I  will  not  be  chucked  under  the  chin.  Here's 
the  station.  Oh!  quick,  Eve,  the  signal's  down,  get 
hold  of  a  porter,  or  shall  I?  perhaps  I'd  better. 
There's  the  luggage  to  be  labelled,  and  we  do  not  want 
to  celebrate  the  occasion  by  missing  our  train!" 

And  in  their  reserved  carriage  Kitty  read  her  Tele- 
graph :  produced  it  from  her  dressing-case  and  buried 
herself  in  it  under  Evelyn's  nose,  and  discussed  items 
of  news  in  it  that  were  of  common  interest,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  they  had  been  married  ten  years.  Sit- 
ting with  half -closed  eyes  and  a  cigarette  between  his 
lips,  while  the  train  rattled  on  through  the  ever- 
darkening  landscape  and  lights  began  to  shine,  Eve- 
lyn tried  to  make  himself  believe  that  he  was  married 
at  last :  that  the  years  of  bachelor  freedom  were  over, 
and  his  life  henceforth  was  to  be  shared  with  the  lady 
opposite.  But  it  was  no  use,  he  could  not  believe  it, 
or  at  least  he  could  not  realise  it;  he  had  travelled 
with  Kitty  before,  and  he  had  smoked  while  she  read 
a  paper:  there  was  no  difference.  .  .  .  True  that  on 
those  other  occasions  they  had  been  expecting  to 
part  in  an  hour  or  so,  whereas  now  she  was  on  her 
way  to  Chelsea,  and  at  Chelsea  there  would  be  no  Tele- 
graph between  them  .  .  .  but,  sufficient  unto  the 
hour!  He  had  so  inexpressibly  dreaded  the  ordeal  of 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  111 

their  foreign  journey,  with  the  inevitable  g&ie  of  its 
prematurely  forced  intimacy,  that  for  the  moment  he 
could  feel  nothing  but  relief. 

And  then  Kitty  found  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  melan- 
choly captive  eyes,  eternally  demanding  more  of  life 
than  it  can  give ;  and  her  own  eyelids  fell  and  her  face 
stiffened  into  a  little  polite  gay  mask,  under  which 
her  valiant  spirit  shivered  in  its  nakedness,  because 
she. could  scarcely  hope  that  the  mask  would  continue 
to  deceive  him.  But  the  train  rolled  on,  with  its  pedal- 
point  of  grinding  wheels  under  the  to  and  fro  throb- 
bing clank  of  the  engine,  bringing  them  every  moment 
nearer  to  the  end  of  their  journey,  and  still  Evelyn 
remained  apparently  blind — mercifully  blind :  life  for 
Kitty  Evelyn  might  continue  to  be  endurable,  so  long 
as  he  was  unaware  that  she  loved  him. 

For  that  was  the  secret  hidden  behind  Kitty's  mask 
and  her  absorption  in  the  Telegraph :  not  a  mild  wifely 
tenderness,  but  one  of  those  overmastering  passions 
that  tear  human  lives  to  pieces  and  are  to  some  extent 
their  own  justification.  Law  itself  has  mercy  on  a 
thief  who  steals  bread  when  he  is  dying  of  hunger, 
and  Kitty  at  the  Manor  Farm  had  almost  died  of 
her  secret  hunger  of  the  heart;  it  was  no  more  than 
the  bare  truth  that  she  had  enjoyed  her  adventure 
in  the  Hunting  Tower;  she  could  have  imagined  a 
worse  fate  than  to  pass  with  Evelyn  into  oblivion  of 
the  fever  of  living.  Failing  death,  she  had  seized  on 
her  chance  of  marriage !  She  could  not  keep  alive  any 
longer  at  the  Manor  Farm  on  a  letter  a  month. 

But  with  her  ruthless  perceptive  faculty,  always 
keen,  and  keenest  of  all  where  Evelyn  was  concerned, 
she  had  no  delusions  about  this  lover  of  hers  who 


112  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

was  now  her  husband :  she  knew  that,  if  she  was  not 
content  to  take  much  less  than  she  gave,  less  and  less 
would  be  given,  till  in  the  end  she  would  be  nothing 
more  to  him  than  a  duty  to  be  performed  gracefully. 
It  was  no  consolation  to  Kitty  to  be  certain  that 
there  would  be  no  failure  either  in  the  performance 
or  in  the  grace.  He  was  incapable  of  discourtesy.  He 
had  never  been  less  than  courteous  to  his  mother, 
with  whom  he  never  willingly  stayed  five  minutes  in 
the  same  room.  It  was  in  his  character  to  treat  his 
wife  in  the  same  fashion,  picking  up  her  handkerchief 
for  her  and  fetching  her  a  cushion  on  his  way  to  the 
door.  Kitty  would  rather  have  been  beaten  like  a 
fish-hag.  Well,  it  should  never  come  to  that,  for  at 
the  first  sign  of  weariness,  or  before  it,  she  was  pre- 
pared to  drop  back  into  the  terms  of  friendship,  as 
loose  and  easy  as  an  old  coat;  otherwise  she  never 
would  have  taken  the  risk  of  this  marriage.  And 
yet  it  was  a  risk,  for  Kitty  and  for  Evelyn  too. 

How  heavy  the  strain  was  on  Evelyn,  Kitty  had 
not  even  begun  to  realise,  for  with  all  her  shrewdness 
she  was  unaware  of  his  peculiar  bent.  He  did  not 
love  her  as  she  loved  him — no :  but  most  men  not  pre- 
occupied elsewhere  find  pleasure  in  the  possession  of 
a  pretty  and  high-spirited  woman,  and  on  that  half- 
brutal  instinct  Kitty,  scarlet  and  pale  by  turns,  relied. 
She  was  not  vain,  but  a  great  many  men  had  admired 
her,  and  when  Evelyn,  in  the  Hunting  Tower,  gave  her 
to  understand  that  he  was  one  of  them,  it  never 
crossed  her  mind  that  she  was  listening  to  a  Quixotic 
lie.  Friendship  alone,  or  passion  alone,  would  have 
formed  an  unsafe  foundation,  but  on  the  two  together 
Kitty  saw  no  reason  why,  with  a  few  common  and  ele- 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  113 

mentary  precautions,  she  should  not  build  her  house 
secure. 

And  yet  it  was  a  risk :  of  her  own  danger  Kitty  had 
been  reckless,  but  now  when  they  were  in  the  train 
together  she  began  to  realise  for  the  first  time  that 
in  it  Evelyn  was  irretrievably  involved,  since  the  most 
profound  and  devoted  love  cannot  stand  between  its 
object  and  the  working  of  natural  laws.  Marriage 
never  leaves  man  or  woman  where  it  found  them. 
Some  change  it  must  bring  to  Evelyn,  however  ruth- 
lessly she  effaced  herself ;  she  might  make  no  demand 
on  him,  but  life  itself  would  inevitably  present  its 
series  of  little  bills,  and  in  one  coin  or  another  Eve- 
lyn would  have  to  pay.  .  .  .  Silence,  and  the  roar  of 
the  train,  to  and  fro  with  its  romping  excentrics,  amid 
the  umber  darkness  of  a  moist  November  night.  .  .  . 
Ever  nearer  to  the  glowing  clouds  of  London  and  to 
the  end  of  the  journey  .  .  .  and  in  this  panic  realisa- 
tion of  the  imminence  of  danger,  and  a  danger  that 
she  had  never  bargained  for,  Mrs.  Evelyn  clenched 
her  small  hands  and  set  her  back  to  the  wall.  She 
was  a  born  gambler  and  high  stakes  only  stiffened 
her  nerve.  She  was  casting  a  great  throw  now:  all 
her  possessions  were  risked  on  it:  but  it  was  not  a 
game  of  pure  hazard — much  depended  on  chance,  but 
more  on  the  penetration  of  her  judgment  and  the 
firmness  of  her  wrist.  Her  eyes  were  on  fire  as  she 
tossed  down  the  Telegraph,  which  had  now  served  its 
turn,  and  stood  up  to  lift  her  chinchilla  scarf  from 
the  rack. 

"There's  the  Lea ;  I  know  that  reach  of  black  water 
and  the  line  of  old  houses  along  it.  We  shall  be  in 
Liverpool  Street  directly.  We  had  better  take  a  taxi 


114  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

to  Chelsea,  drop  the  luggage,  and  get  some  dinner  at  a 
restaurant.  I  shan't  need  a  chaperon!" 

"No,  thank  goodness!" 

"How  impatient  you  are  of  any  sort  of  restraint! 
So  am  I.  I  love  my  freedom,  Eve.  You  never  will 
take  that  from  me,  will  you?" 

"Never,"  said  Evelyn,  feeling  magnanimous,  al- 
though the  idea  had  never  entered  his  head  and  he 
did  not  even  know  exactly  what  she  meant.  As  no 
more  did  Kitty,  for  that  matter. 

"Most  men  do:  but  you  and  I  have  too  much  in 
common.  I  love  to  feel  that  if  I  chose  I  need  not  kiss 
you.  It  makes  me  infinitely  more  ready  to  kiss  you." 
She  flung  her  scarf  over  her  slender  shoulders. 
"This  is  certainly  a  very  easy  way  of  getting  married ! 
I  had  so  much  rather  be  going  to  your  rooms  than 
to  an  hotel." 

"So  had  I,"  said  her  husband.  She  found  his  arm  en- 
lacing her  and  stood  still,  a  little  withdrawn  figure, 
dainty,  sparkling,  and  ready  to  fly.  "Kitty,"  said 
Evelyn  in  her  ear,  "isn't  this  rather  fun?" 

"Immense  if  you  won't  untidy  my  hair,"  said  Kitty. 

Fortune  favours  the  bold !  She  was  thrilling  with 
triumph  when  she  sprang  out  on  the  platform.  She 
had  not  yet  learnt  that  the  dice  were  loaded. 

Fraser  was  not  pleased  to  see  them  and  made  no 
pretence  of  it.  He  had  planned  to  springclean  the 
flat  during  Evelyn's  absence,  washing  the  china,  dust- 
ing the  books,  and  sorting  the  accumulated  drift  of 
Evelyn's  music  into  cruciform  piles ;  and  now  it  could 
none  of  it  be  done,  and  here  was  his  new  mistress 
coming  in  on  top  of  a  London  season's  dirt,  "for  when 
Mr.  Efelyn  iss  at  home  there  iss  no  cleaning  done," 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  115 

said  Fraser  coldly,  fixing  his  master  with  his  reproach- 
ful, Scottish,  bine  eyes.  "In  the  circumstances  I  was 
justified  in  hoping  for  full  a  fortnight.  A  body  might 
think  he  would  put  up  with  it  for  as  long  as  that !" 

"Put  up  with  what?"  Kitty  asked,  rather  startled. 

"Honeymooning,  mem,"  replied  Fraser  with  sim- 
plicity. 

But  when  Kitty  had  retired,  as  Evelyn  said,  "a 
little  the  worse  for  wear,"  and  the  reproachful  Fraser 
had  gone  away  to  his  own  quarters,  his  mistress  was 
quite  happy  in  roving  round  Evelyn's  premises  and 
examining  with  candid  boyish  curiosity  the  pretty 
things  they  contained.  She  laughed  at  the  spoils  of 
his  French  and  German  and  Russian  wanderings,  the 
paintings  that  had  scandalised  George  Dent,  and  the 
countless  photographs  of  ladies  whom  Fraser,  if  he 
had  not  been  taken  by  surprise,  would  certainly  have 
locked  up  out  of  the  bride's  path.  They  did  not  ruffle 
Kitty.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  not  here  her  danger 
lay.  Evelyn,  his  back  to-  the  fire  that  Fraser  had 
hurriedly  lighted,  watched  her  Sittings  with  sombre 
eyes. 

"Come  out  and  get  some  dinner,  Kitty,  it's  after 
seven  o'clock  and  you  must  be  hungry.  You've  had 
no  tea." 

"No;  and  I  don't  remember  having  any  lunch — 
Oh!  yes,  I  did,  though,  Mr.  Meredith  administered 
chicken  and  champagne  in  the  library  before  I  changed 
my  dress.  He  explained  that  I  hadn't  eaten  any- 
thing at  the  breakfast  and  that  it  was  part  of  his 
duty  to  produce  both  of  us  in  good  form.  He  was 
really  rather  charming.  Where  shall  we  go?" 

"The  Coin  de  Paris,  it's  the  only  place  where  you 


116  GLAIR  DE  LUNB 

can  get  really  pretty  music,  and  I  must  have  some- 
thing to  take  the  taste  of  the  train  out  of  my  mouth. 
It  always  reminds  me  of  my  mother."  Kitty  looked, 
for  once,  entirely  blank.  "Didn't  you  know  that  all 
trains  play  tunes?"  said  Evelyn  smiling  at  her.  "The 
South-Western  generally  plays  a  waltz.  But  the 
Great  Eastern  plays  a  horrible  tune  that  my  mother 
used  to  play  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  a  Leech  and 
Tenniel  polka  tune:  Dum,  dum,  de  dum-dum-dum; 
dum-diddle  dum-diddle  dum-dum-dum.  I've  had  it 
ringing  in  my  head  ever  since.  It'll  take  the  Coin 
de  Paris  to  put  it  out." 

"Oh !  the  Coin  de  Paris  by  all  means,  in  that  case," 
Kitty  said,  vaguely  startled:  unlike  most  of  his  fel- 
lows, Evelyn  rarely  alluded  to  the  musical  side  of 
his  life,  and  well  as  she  knew  him  she  never  grew 
used  to  the  betrayal  of  his  preoccupation  with  it. 
"But  that  means  dress,  doesn't  it?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  suppose  so.  Don't 
you  want  the  bother  of  changing?" 

"It  won't  take  me  ten  minutes  if  Fraser  has  brought 
my  trunk  up.  But — " 

"But  what?" 

"Where  shall  I  change?"  said  Kitty,  composed  but 
scarlet. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  said  Evelyn,  reddening 
with  a  deeper  flush.  "I'm — I  forgot — " 

She  was  the  quicker  to  recover  herself.  "How 
quaint!  I  wonder  whether  all  married  couples  go 
through  these  trying  moments?  I  dare  say  they  do, 
but,  of  course,  one  would  always  swear  one  never 
did.  I  warn  you,  Eve,  if  you  ever  refer  to  it  I  shall 
deny  it." 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  117 

Evelyn  held  open  the  door  of  his  room  for  her  and 
followed  her  in.  Hastily  set  to  rights  by  Fraser,  it 
was  still  a  young  man's  room,  airy  and  rather  bare; 
fencing  foils  hung  crossed  on  the  wall,  and  under 
them  on  an  oak  shelf  stood  three  or  four  silver  racing 
cups,  some  of  which  Kitty  had  watched  him  win  at 
Fenner's.  Football  and  cricket  he  had  forsworn  in 
his  eternal  fear  for  his  hands,  and  the  boats  took  up 
too  much  time,  but  he  was  an  exceedingly  fleet  runner, 
and  in  those  days  lithe  as  a  wand  and  hard  as  steel. 
His  body  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  its  spring  by  now, 
Kitty  thought,  glancing  at  him  from  time  to  time  as 
he  stood  playing  with  various  objects  on  the  dressing 
table,  while  his  wife  moved  about  the  room  taking 
her  evening  clothes  out  of  the  trunk  which  Fraser 
had  dutifully  brought  up  and  unstrapped.  But  Eve- 
lyn's head  was  bent.  He  was  not  watching  Kitty. 
She  wondered  what  his  thoughts  were:  but  it  was  as 
well  for  her  that  she  could  not  read  them.  When  he 
had  torn  to  shreds  the  violets  that  she  had  taken  out 
of  her  coat,  and  was  in  the  act  of  breaking  her  tor- 
toiseshell  combs,  Kitty  came  up  to  him  and  took  them 
out  of  his  destructive  fingers. 

"Run  away  and  dress  now,  Eve.    I  shan't  be  long." 

He  gathered  her  hands  into  his  own  and  raised  them 
to  his  lips.  "I'm  not  brilliant  in  my  new  r61e,  it  ap- 
pears to  me." 

"No,  dear."  The  derision  in  her  eyes  would  have 
piqued  a  duller  man  than  Charles  Evelyn.  "I  can't 
say  you  are.  Any  ordinary  John  Smith  would  prob- 
ably shine  by  contrast.  Fortunately  in  this  role  it 
isn't  necessary  for  you  to  be  brilliant.  Oh  dear  me, 
Eve,  if  I  am  your  wife  that  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that 


118  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

we've  played  together  since  you  were  in  petticoats! 
You're  only  shy  of  me  because  you  feel  bound  to  live 
up  to  Mr.  Meredith's  portrait  of  the  Perfect  Bride- 
groom. But  you  needn't,  because  I  don't  even  re- 
motely resemble  what  Mr.  Meredith  would  consider 
to  be  the  Perfect  Bride.  I  don't  feel  anything  ex- 
cept the  most  deadly  embarrassment,  in  fact  to  be 
quite  frank  I  don't  feel  as  if  you  ought  to  be  in  here 
at  all.  You  run  away  and  dress !" 

"But,  my  darling  girl— !" 

She  stamped  her  foot.  "Oh!  don't  be  so  consci- 
entious !  .  .  .  You  wait  and  see,  it'll  all  come  right  by 
and  by :  you'll  feel  different  when  you've  had  a  proper 
dinner  and  half  a  pint  of  champagne." 

"Kitty,  of  all  the  thorough-paced  little  cynics !" 

"It  isn't  I  that  am  cynical :  it's  the  way  of  the  world 
and  the  men  in  it.  Lay  the  blame  where  it  belongs, 
dear;  I  dare  say  His  shoulders  arQ  broad  enough  to 
bear  it." 

She  turned  him  out.  Evelyn  went  into  his  dressing 
room,  but  it  was  a  long  while  before  he  found  enough 
energy  to  change  into  his  evening  clothes.  He  was 
frightened :  not  of  Kitty,  but  of  himself  and  the  web 
into  which  he  had  unwittingly  walked.  There  was 
some  devilish  element  in  the  situation  that  he  could 
not  cope  with  or  even  lay  his  finger  on. 

Many  a  sensitive  man  marries  a  woman  he  does 
not  love  because  he  has  fancied  himself  in  love  with 
her  till  it  was  too  late  to  retreat.  In  such  an  event 
one  puts  a  good  face  on  the  inevitable,  hopefully  wait- 
ing for  habit  to  blunt  the  sharp  edges.  But  how  dif- 
ferent it  was  between  Evelyn  and  Kitty.  He  had 
never  seen  a  woman  he  preferred  to  her:  she  never 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  119 

bored  him :  her  companionship  was  as  loose  and  easy 
as  an  old  coat  (Kitty's  own  simile!)  :  in  her  delicate 
keen  personality  there  was  no  trait  that  did  not  en- 
chant his  taste,  from  the  fine  fair  curls  of  her  hair  to 
the  tiny  foot  so  sure  in  the  stirrup  or  on  the  braeside : 
she  was  part  of  his  life  and  he  could  not  imagine 
it  without  her — part  of  his  life,  and  every  fibre  in  him 
shrank  from  taking  her  into  his  life !  The  deficiency 
was  in  him  not  in  her,  but  it  was  none  the  lighter  to 
bear  for  that. 

Long  he  sat  by  his  open  window  looking  out  into 
the  night,  and  wondering  what  on  earth  was  the  mat- 
ter with  him :  whether  it  was  only  a  nervous  disorder, 
which  might  pass,  or  the  symptom  of  some  obscure, 
insidious,  horrible  trouble  of  the  brain.  ...  It  had 
never  been  so  bad,  not  even  in  the  Hunting  Tower; 
it  had  gone  off  after  that  and  he  had  not  felt  it,  ex- 
cept once  or  twice  when  he  woke  up  to  it,  and  even 
then  it  had  left  him  when  he  struck  a  light  and  read 
a  book ;  once  or  twice  he  had  thought  of  going  to  see 
a  doctor,  but  his  confusion  would  have  been  very 
great,  and  characteristically  he  had  put  it  off  and  put 
it  off  and  shut  his  eyes  and  run  away  from  his  mys- 
terious enemy — and  now  it  had  him  in  its  grip.  It 
was  agony.  With  a  paralysing  sense  of  shame,  an 
overpowering  shyness,  a  distress  that  try  as  he  might 
he  felt  helpless  to  conceal,  Evelyn  faced  his  married 
life. 

He  thought  of  George  Dent  and  wondered  what  his 
brother-in-law  would  have  said  or  done  to  him:  of 
Meredith's  indolent  banter:  of  Philip  with  his  hard, 
acquisitive,  Masson  blood.  His  cheek  burnt  at  the 
bare  idea  of  being  found  out  by  any  one  of  them, 


120  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

especially  Philip,  whose  after-dinner  talk,  when  there 
were  no  ladies  in  the  room,  was  occasionally  free. 
He  had  sickened  at  it  in  the  old  days,  but  now  he 
half  envied  the  rough  strong  nature  it  sprang  from. 

Or  Meredith  and  his  portrait  of  the  Perfect  Bride- 
groom !  Meredith  had  certainly  made  a  Perfect  Best 
Man.  Meredith  it  was  who  had  ordered  carriages  and 
bouquets,  and  tipped  the  verger,  and  produced  a  ring 
from  his  pocket  at  the  dreadful  moment  when  it 
dawned  on  Evelyn  that  he  hadn't  one — and  by  the 
by  was  it  Meredith  who  had  paid  for  that  ring?  Dear 
old  Meredith,  the  best  of  friends !  One  would  have 
to  settle  up  with  him  one  of  these  days ;  luckily  there 
was  no  hurry.  .  .  . 

"Eve's  friendship,"  Meredith  was  at  that  moment 
reflecting  with  his  cynical  smile  as  he  sat  by  the  fire 
in  Streets  Mews  jotting  down  the  day's  accounts  in 
his  pocketbook,  "is  apt  to  be  an  expensive  luxury. 
Ring:  flowers:  tips:  parson's  fee:  Kitty's  necklace. 
...  I  wonder  if  she  would  have  been  quite  so  grate- 
ful to  Eve  for  those  sapphires  if  she  had  known  who 
paid  for  them?  But  they  looked  well  on  her  neck. 
.  .  .  H'm :  rather  a  stiff  price  to  pay  for  the  doubtful 
joy  of  packing  those  two  off  to  the  Riviera  together.  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  one  penny  of  it  again?  Lots 
of  men  pay  their  friends  and  diddle  their  tradesmen, 
but  Eve  .  .  .  How  pretty  she  looked  in  those  sap- 
phires !"  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Half  past  seven : 
ah  well.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  see  her  again  in  January." 
He  shuddered  and  dropped  his  face  on  his  hands  with 
a  deep  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan.  "No,  no :  not 
Evelyn's  wife.  .  .  ." 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  121 

.  .  .  and  hadn't  there  been  some  talk  at  one  time 
of  Meredith's  admiring  Kitty?  Again  in  the  dark- 
ness Evelyn  felt  himself  reddening.  How  Meredith 
would  have  jeered  at  him !  Meredith  was  not  afraid 
of  life;  it  had  never  yet  offered  him  a  situation  that 
he  could  not  tackle  with  his  capable  strong  hands. 
Evelyn  winced :  face  to  face  with  the  situation  of  to- 
night, what  short  work  Meredith's  hardy  manhood 
would  have  made  of  it ! 

Meantime  one  was  in  danger  of  keeping  Kitty  wait- 
ing. Evelyn  rose  and  stood  for  a  moment  by  the 
open  window,  abandoning  himself  to  the  beauty  of 
the  glowing  darkness  of  London  and  the  chill  of  its 
moist  nocturnal  breath.  Amid  many  difficulties  there 
stood  out  one  impossibility,  that  of  letting  Kitty  read 
his  mind.  She  had  not  done  so  yet,  he  was  convinced ; 
she  saw  that  he  was  shy,  but  it  meant  no  more  to 
her  than  a  touch  of  nerves.  It  must  go  at  that  if 
he  died  for  it.  His  wife  was  sensitive  and  he  would 
rather  have  shot  himself  than  put  her  to  shame.  His 
own  mercurial  temperament  too  would  help  him  to 
deceive  her,  for  there  was  often  a  play  of  surface 
fire  over  its  dark  seas;  he  had,  yes,  he  had  enjoyed 
kissing  her  in  the  train!  And  deriving,  like  Kitty, 
a  certain  courage  from  having  his  back  to  the  wall, 
Evelyn  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lit  the  lamp.  One 
could  steel  oneself  to  go  through  with  it,  since  it  was 
inevitable:  and  perhaps  after  all  Kitty  was  right, 
and  the  privileges  of  the  young  husband  would  be 
less  uncongenial  after  supper  at  the  Coin  de  Paris! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DURING  the  twelve  months  before  Philip's  death 
Evelyn  had  reached  that  happy  period  of  an 
artist's  career  when  the  wind  is  blowing  in 
his  favour;  when  Press  notices  are  prompt  and  kind, 
and  people  are  saying  to  one  another,  "Have  you 
heard  So-and-So  yet?"  One  of  the  leading  musical 
journals  had  published  an  interview  with  "Charles 
Evelyn  at  Home,"  a  second  had  analysed  his  "Art  and 
Personality"  under  the  title  of  "An  English  Cortot." 
He  had  been  beset  with  invitations  professional  and 
social,  the  latter  often  very  hard  to  refuse.  Dimsdale 
Smith  his  agent,  a  brisk  dark  man  one  of  whose  quali- 
fications was  alleged  to  be  that  he  didn't  know  one 
tune  from  another,  had  been  anxious  to  fix  up  an 
autumn  provincial  tour  guaranteed  to  bring  in  a  net 
£1500.  Anecdotes  about  his  absence  of  mind  ran 
through  the  Personal  Columns  from  Queensland  to 
Singapore,  and  when,  at  the  ^Bolian  Hall,  he  took 
his  fingers  off  the  keys  in  the  middle  of  Barlumi,  Dims- 
dale Smith  said  his  innocent  "O  Lord,  I  can't  remem- 
ber how  it  goes  on !"  was  worth  a  dozen  posters.  He 
was  a  popular  favourite :  one  of  those  spoilt  children 
who  can  take  liberties  with  their  public,  which  for- 
gave him  all  shortcomings  when  he  bowed  to  it  with 
his  charming  smile,  so  gay  and  friendly. 

But  before  the  end  of  March  Dimsdale  Smith  was 
tearing  his  curly  hair,  while  Evelyn  remained  imper- 
viously bland.  The  provincial  tour  still  hung  in  the 

122 


CLAIR  DB  LUNE  123 

wind,  and  even  in  London  Evelyn  instead  of  court- 
ing engagements  tried  to  get  out  of  them.  He  played 
once  in  Queen's  Hall,  attacked  with  all  his  old  fire 
an  exceedingly  brilliant  Delius  concerto,  and  was  chid- 
den by  the  critics  for  quite  a  little  shower  of  wrong 
notes  in  the  Largo  movement.  Evelyn  only  laughed 
and  said  he  was  out  of  practice.  Since  that  is  not 
an  excuse  that  a  professional  musician  can  afford 
to  offer,  people  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  the  tone 
of  criticism  began  to  change.  Followed  the  inevitable 
question,  "Drinks,  doesn't  he — or  is  it  morphia?" 

How  unfair  it  was  none  knew  so  well  as  Kitty,  silent 
spectator  of  a  transformed  Evelyn  who  seemed  only 
anxious  to  work  all  day  and  all  night.  He  was  not 
allowed  to  do  it.  As  an  Evelyn  of  Temple  Evelyn 
he  had  mixed  all  his  life  in  a  social  set  to  which  mere 
talent  gave  no  man  entry,  and  he  was  weak  and  often 
let  his  days  go  at  the  mercy  of  interruptions— chance 
callers  who  dropped  in  for  a  cigarette  and  stayed 
half  a  morning,  cards  rained  on  him  and  Kitty  by  old 
family  friends  for  whom  "the  Season"  was  a  career. 
But  he  would  come  in  at  two  in  the  morning  and 
work  till  he  dropped  asleep  in  his  chair.  Kitty  often 
wondered  if  she  ought  to  let  him  do  it,  but  she  was  too 
young  a  wife  to  dare  to  interfere.  Indolent?  George 
Dent  was  tough  and  energetic,  but  in  the  longest  days 
of  harvest-home  she  had  never  seen  him  exhaust  him- 
self so  unsparingly.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  never 
known  Evelyn  before. 

Or  as  though  she  did  not  know  him  now:  for  he 
puzzled  her.  Some  fibre  in  him  was  steel-hard :  she 
put  out  her  hand,  touched  it,  and  drew  back,  not  sure 
what  it  was  but  shivering  from  that  cold  contact 


124  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Meredith  enlightened  her.  In  town  for  the  season, 
he  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  their  flat,  and  would  sit 
and  put  up  his  eyeglass  to  stare  at  Evelyn  as  if  he 
too  were  puzzled.  But  one  day,  when  Evelyn  had  la- 
conically and  ungratefully  refused  an  invitation  to 
the  opening  day  at  Hurlingham,  Meredith  turned 
towards  Kitty  with  a  teasing  smile.  "No  good,  Mrs. 
Evelyn.  We  can  twist  nine-tenths  of  him  round  our 
fingers,  but  there's  always  a  residuum  that  won't 
budge.  You  don't  take  me?  Oh,  come,  come!  But 
then  you're  a  woman,  and  Eve  is  the  victim  of  one  of 
those  male  follies  that  women,  being  the  practical 
sex,  never  understand.  Still  you  ought  to  know 
what  it  is." 

"What  what  is?"  Kitty  asked  placidly  over  her 
knitting  needles. 

"Art,"  said  Meredith. 

It  was  after  midnight,  and  Meredith  in  evening 
dress  on  his  way  home  from  some  entertainment  un- 
specified had  come  up  because  in  passing  under  their 
windows  he  had  seen  lights  burning  overhead.  He 
lounged  on  a  sofa  sipping  a  cafe  filtre,  Kitty  sat  on  a 
high -backed  chair  knitting  a  tie  for  Leslie  Wright 
in  recompense  for  a  red  one  which  she  and  her  hus- 
band had  violently  taken  from  him  and  burnt,  and 
Evelyn  in  a  soft  shirt  and  a  white  and  green  blazer 
stood  at  the  window  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
his  back  pointedly  turned  on  the  room.  Dimsdale 
Smith,  having  argued  himself  into  a  state  of  exhaus- 
tion, had  given  Evelyn  up  and  was  on  his  hands  and 
knees  under  the  table  looking  for  Kitty's  ball  of  silk. 
He  came  out  backward  and  with  a  rumpled  head.  "It 
isn't  anywhere,  really,  Mrs.  Evelyn !"  he  said  piteously. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  125 

"It  is,"  said  Kitty.  "I  saw  it  drop.  It  must  have 
rolled  right  along  under  that  bookcase."  She  could 
never  resist  the  temptation  to  torment  Dimsdale 
Smith.  Meredith  put  up  his  eyeglass  to  contemplate 
the  dwindling  stern  which  was  all  that  was  left  vis- 
ible of  Evelyn's  impresario  as  he  crept  back  among  the 
legs  of  the  table.  It  sank  flatter  and  flatter  till  Dims- 
dale was  entirely  prostrate,  his  cheek  on  the  nig,  his 
arm  stretched  out  and  fumbling  amid  invisible  flue 
.  .  .  Triumph!  he  came  up  flushed  and  dusty,  and 
rubbing  his  head,  but  bearing  the  ball  in  his  hand. 
"Thank  you,"  said  Kitty,  tucking  it  behind  her.  "You 
had  better  go  and  brush  yourself,  Dimmie,  you're  all 
fluffy." 

"Come  along  and  I'll  brush  you,  Hercules,"  said 
Evelyn. 

He  led  his  friend  into  the  next  room,  where  ap- 
parently Dimsdale  had  to  be  rubbed  down  like  a 
horse,  for  there  came  out  a  sound  of  hissing. 

"Do  you  call  that  thing  an  artist?"  Kitty  asked, 
pointing  with  a  knitting  needle  over  her  shoulder. 

"Well,  what  would  you  call  him :"  said  Meredith,  "a 
business  man?" 

Kitty  laid  down  her  work.  She  was  reluctant  to 
discuss  her  husband,  but  she  needed  advice,  for  she 
was  anxious,  and  her  own  judgment  was  handicapped 
by  her  ignorance  of  the  musical  world.  Marriage 
alters  the  point  of  view;  Evelyn's  incompetence  in 
dealing  with  servants  and  porters  and  tradesmen  had 
amused  Kitty  Dent,  but  it  frightened  Kitty  Evelyn, 
who  felt  that  such  simplicity  however  lovable  would 
be  out  of  place  among  contracts  and  guarantees !  She 
had  to  talk  to  some  one,  and  to  whom  more  confi- 


126  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

dentially  than  to  Meredith?  for  Evelyn  was  most  care- 
lessly open  about  his  own  affairs,  and  probably  an  old 
friend  like  Meredith  would  already  have  heard  all 
there  was  to  know. 

On  her  own  score  too  she  liked  and  trusted  him: 
liked  his  obvious  liking  for  Evelyn,  and  trusted  his 
judgment,  so  shrewd  under  its  veil  of  affectation.  She 
trusted  Dimmie  too,  but  then  he  had  no  influence, 
whereas  Meredith  could  manage  Evelyn  if  anyone 
could.  She  had  almost  forgotten  that  Meredith  had 
once  admired  her.  It  was  so  long  ago,  and  what  had 
there  ever  been  in  it  after  all?  Nothing:  the  merest 
flirtation. 

Kitty  in  her  way  was  as  unsuspecting  as  her  hus- 
band, but  indeed  it  would  have  needed  a  keen  eye  to 
penetrate  Meredith's  mask — when  it  was  a  mask;  he 
was  so  fond  of  Evelyn  and  so  hopeless  of  Kitty's  loy- 
alty that  nine  days  out  of  ten  the  mask  was  second 
nature.  The  tenth  day?  On  the  tenth  day  Meredith 
simply  suffered  and  did  not  reflect. 

Kitty  sighed  as  she  laid  down  her  work.  "I  wish 
I  knew  more  about  business.  Dimmie  says  you  can't 
— even  Evelyn  can't — go  on  taking  liberties  for  ever: 
that,  if  you  refuse  engagements  when  they're  offered, 
very  soon  they  won't  be  offered  when  you  want  them, 
and  that  it's  folly  to  trust  to  what  he  calls  B.  P.  mem- 
ory for  a  second  chance.  If  that's  true  it's  serious, 
because  after  all  Eve  does  want  to  be  successful  and 
to  make  money — he  would  hate  to  be  overtaken  in 
any  race.  At  least  I  used  to  think  so.  But  some- 
times now  it  seems  as  if  he  really  didn't  care." 

"No  ambition?" 

"No.    Last  night  we  went  to  hear  that  new  young 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  127 

Jewish  pianist  that  people  are  making  such  a  fuss 
over,  and  Evelyn  was  quite  simply  delighted  and  went 
up  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  said  he  only  wished 
he  could  play  the  Appassionata  like  that.  But  of 
course  that  boy  doesn't  come  near  Eve  when  he's 
in  form?"  There  was  a  question  in  her  voice.  Mere- 
dith's eyelids  dropped. 

"Are  you  doing  me  the  honour  to  consult  me  seri- 
ously? Then,  frankly,  it's  an  open  secret  that  Eve- 
lyn owes  some  of  his  success  to  his  personality."  In 
saying  so  he  tasted  the  pleasure  of  a  deliberate  stab. 
But  Kitty  only  nodded.  "He's  a  brilliant  pianist. 
But  not  more  so  than  others  who  aren't  half  such  a 
draw.  Why?  because  they  haven't  Evelyn's  looks 
and  Smith  can't  circulate  little  pars,  about  the  family 
seat  in  Cambridgeshire.  And  of  course  Eve's  little 
confidences  are  very  effective." 

He  had  risked  a  snub,  but  none  came.  "Thank  you," 
said  Kitty  soberly.  "I  can  take  quinine  from  a 
friend.  Indeed  I  wish  you  would  give  Evelyn  a  dose 
of  it !  I'm  a  little  worried.  I  hate  to  worry  him,  but 
I  do  mistrust  both  his  judgment  and  my  own.  I  know 
as  little  about  music  as  he  does  about  business ;  mean- 
time one  must  live,  and  he  can't  afford  to  retire." 

"Retire!  at  his  age?" 

"It'll  soon  come  to  that." 

"But  what  is  he  doing  then?  He  never  was  an 
idler.  Why  won't  he  work?" 

Kitty  glanced  at  the  closed  door.  "He  said  I 
might  tell  you  but  not  Dimmie.  It  appears  that  Dim- 
mie's  criticisms  get  on  his  nerves.  Promise !" 

"Silence  till  death !" 

"Writing  an  opera." 


128  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Meredith,  dropping  his 
eyeglass,  "this  is  serious !" 

"Very,"  said  Kitty  drily.  "Especially  when  he 
sticks  fast.  Then  there  are  damns  and  bits  of  music 
paper  all  over  the  floor.  Of  course  I  can't  tell  if  it's 
any  good,  and  no  more  can  he,  apparently — his  affec- 
tion for  it  seems  to  fluctuate  with  the  weather  and 
his  digestion.  But  what  I  principally  want  to  find  out 
is  whether  there's  any  money  in  it !  As  you  know,  Eve 
has  been  writing  music  on  and  off  all  his  life,  but  he 
doesn't  seem  to  have  made  much  out  of  it  so  far.  Hav- 
ing a  low,  practical  mind,  as  you  justly  observe,  I'd 
rather  he  would  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  and 
not  take  to  composing  till  he  loses  his  hair." 

"What's  it  like?" 

"From  what  I've  heard  it  seems  to  be  rather  French 
in  style;  but  I  was  so  beaten  and  harried  for  saying 
that  a  trio  in  the  Second  Act  reminded  me  of  the 
Puck  music  in  Berlioz's  Midsummer  Night,  that  I 
have  grown  shy  of  expressing  an  opinion." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  it." 

"I  should  like  you  to  hear  it.  I  do  want  your  criti- 
cism, and  so  I  think  does  Eve;  he  is  so  self -distrust- 
ful." 

<rWith  gentle  handling,  if  we  can  get  rid  of  Smith, 
we  may  induce  him  to  let  me  look  at  the  score. 
French,  you  say?  Yes,  Eve  is  French :  he  hasn't  much 
in  common  with  the  modern  British  group.  Oh,  by 
the  by,  Smith,"  as  Dimsdale  returned  followed  by  his 
grinning  host,  "have  you  five  minutes  to  spare?  I've 
written  a  little  song  that  I  want  you  to  place  for  me. 
I'll  send  it  in,  shall  I?"  he  strolled  towards  the  piano, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  129 

"or  we  might  try  it  over  now  if  Mrs.  Evelyn  would 
give  us  leave — " 

Dimsdale  Smith  made  some  of  his  living  by  plac- 
ing little  songs  on  a  ten  per  cent  basis,  but  it  was  no 
part  of  the  bargain  for  him  to  listen  while  the  infat- 
uated composer  tried  them  over — probably  over  and 
over — in  Dimmie's  play-time.  He  gave  a  start  of 
alarm.  "Oh,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  I'd  love  to,  but  I  can't 
stop  now.  Eoll  it  along  to-morrow  and  I'll  have  a 
look  at  it."  He  was  already  on  his  feet.  "Good  night, 
Mrs.  Evelyn,  I  must  be  off.  I  didn't  know  it  was  so 
late.  Thanks  so  much  for  letting  me  drop  in  in  this 
informal  way,  it  is  so  jolly  knowing  you  like  this. 
And  you  will,"  quite  unconsciously  he  was  clasping 
Kitty's  hand,  knitting  pins  and  all,  "you  will  use 
your  influence  with  your  husband,  won't  you?  Make 
him  see  how  important  it  is,  how  fearfully,  vitally 
necessary,  to  keep  in  the  very  middle  of  the  B.  P.'s 
eye—" 

"Yes,  Dimmie,  I  will,"  said  Kitty,  smiling  up  at  him 
tenderly. 

"Kitty,"  said  Evelyn,  as  the  door  shut  on  Dimsdale, 
"you  tipped  that  ball  of  silk  under  the  bookcase  on 
purpose." 

"Oh  no  I  didn't,"  said  Kitty  serenely.  "It  rolled. 
I've  been  telling  Mr.  Meredith  about  Clair  de  Lune. 
You  said  I  might.  He's  promised  not  to  tell  Dimmie." 

Evelyn  incontinently  fled.  Pursued  and  captured 
on  the  stairs,  he  was  tucked  under  Meredith's  arm  and 
put  back  into  a  chair.  "My  dear  friend,  where  is  the 
score?"  Meredith  enquired  as  languidly  as  if  he  had 
never  scuffled  in  his  life. 

"Over  there.    Bureau." 


130  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

It  would  have  been  cruelty  to  comment  on  his  scar- 
let face,  and  Meredith  contented  himself  with  lifting 
out  the  score.  He  sat  down  again  on  the  sofa  holding 
it  open  on  his  knee.  No  one  spoke.  Kitty  continued 
to  knit  swiftly,  Evelyn  lay  at  full  length  in  his  low 
chair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  legs  extended  and 
wide  apart  at  the  knees.  Across  the  room's  hush, 
nocturnal  murmurs  of  London  drifted  in  at  the  open 
window,  cling-clang  of  brougham  bells,  moan  of  a 
siren  far  off  on  the  river,  rumble  of  hoofs  in  a  brew- 
er's dray.  Suddenly  Meredith  began  to  whistle  an  air 
under  his  breath :  an  elfin  air,  the  spirit  of  moonlight 
imprisoned  in  a  little  cold  dancing  tune.  Evelyn 
shivered  and  drew  in  his  legs. 

"Shut  up !"  he  said  softly,  as  though  the  little  tune 
set  his  teeth  on  edge. 

Meredith  turned  a  leaf,  turned  back,  whistled  the 
little  tune  again,  and  put  the  score  down.  "I  wish 
you  would  run  it  through  for  me  on  the  piano.  Where 
did  you  get  that  tune?" 

"  'Came  into  my  head  one  day  while  I  was  watch- 
ing Kitty." 

"Oh." 

Volunteered  criticism  would  have  goaded  Evelyn 
into  madness.  But  when  none  came  he  was  naturally 
no  less  annoyed.  "Well,  why  can't  you  say  what  you 
think  of  it?"  he  demanded  angrily.  "What's  the  use 
of  letting  you  see  the  score?  I  thought  you  called 
yourself  a  musical  critic !" 

"I  cannot  judge  till  we've  tried  it  on  the  piano.  For 
one  thing  I  never  was  trained  to  decipher  a  palimpsest, 
and  I  cannot  read  much  more  than  one  bar  in  three. 
Your  Schrift  at  the  best  of  times,  my  dear  Evelyn, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  131 

suggests  the  meanderings  of  an  intoxicated  pin,  and 
most  of  this  seems  to  have  been  produced  in  a  gale 
of  wind  and  a  violent  temper."  He  relented.  "It 
sounds  pretty  fresh  and  original." 

"Original  you  call  it?" 

"So  far  as  I  can  judge.  Rather  French  in  style: 
certainly  far  more  French  than  English.  I  see  no 
trace  of  Worcester  influence."  He  laughed  in  Evelyn's 
vexed  face.  "No,  be  at  ease:  it  isn't  too  French.  It 
is  original." 

"She  said  it  was  borrowed." 

"I  did  not—!" 

"You  did,  you  said  that  trio  in  Act  II  was  cribbed 
from  Mendelssohn's  Midsummer  Night/' 

"Berlioz's,"  amended  Kitty  mildly.  "Dearest,  if 
you  say  what  is  not  true,  you  will  not  go  to  heaven 
when  you  die." 

"The  Lord  forbid !"  said  Evelyn  with  levity.  "I  hate 
a  male  chorus." 

"Peace,  Faun!"  Meredith  interposed.  "Where  did 
you  pick  up  your  libretto?" 

"Wrote  it  myself." 

"Oh,  come,  come!" 

"I  did!"  said  Evelyn,  sitting  up  indignant  and 
amazed.  "It's  only  roughed  in,  some  one  else  will 
have  to  lick  it  into  shape,  but,  such  as  it  is,  it's  mina 
I  took  it  from  one  of  the  Folies  Amoureuses  of  Catulle 
Mendes— a  rum  little  tale  about  two  people  who  were 
in  love  and  parted  and  met  again  and  wished  they 
hadn't." 

"  'II  ne  faut  pas  jouer  avec  la  ccndre.'  I  thought 
it  seemed  vaguely  familiar.  Now  I  understand  what 
you  mean  by  saying  you  wrote  it  yourself.  Mrs.  Eve- 


132  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

lyn,  what's  the  odds  that  if  Catulle  were  alive  to  hear 
it  he  would  say  he  wrote  Evelyn's  opera?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  what  price  me?"  said  Kitty. 
"I  lent  him  the  Folies.  And  it  was  one  of  my  mother's 
books,  so  now  where  are  you?"  She  rose,  stuffing  her 
tie  into  a  silken  workbag.  "Good  night,  Mr.  Mere- 
dith, I'm  going  to  bed.  I  suppose  you  and  Eve  will 
sit  up  all  night  trying  over  the  score  on  the  piano. 
We've  rented  the  flat  below  as  well  now,  so  it  doesn't 
signify  how  late  we  play." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  then,  "And  what 
about  the  flat  above?"  asked  Meredith. 

"Oh !  the  flat  above  seems  to  like  it,"  said  Kitty  on 
her  way  to  the  door.  "There's  only  one  woman  in  it. 
I  don't  know  her,  but  she  looks  rather  pretty  and 
forlorn.  At  all  events  she  is  delightful  about  our  play- 
ing. I  met  her  in  the  lift  one  day  when  Mr.  Hurst 
and  Leslie  Wright  had  been  warbling  Pinafore  till 
two  in  the  morning,  and  apologised,  but  she  said  it 
didn't  signify  a  straw — that  she  could  sleep  through 
any  quantity  of  noise,  or  if  it  was  Eve  playing  she 
loved  to  lie  awake.  She  said  she  was  used  to  his  music 
and  had  missed  it  horribly  while  he  was  away." 

"Charming  of  her,"  said  Meredith.  He  opened  the 
score  on  the  desk  without  glancing  at  Evelyn. 

It  was  to  be  hoped  that  Miss  Carter  had  been  sin- 
cere, for  dawn  was  in  the  sky  before  Meredith  with 
a  prodigious  yawn  got  up  from  the  piano.  He  had  sat 
by  Evelyn  hour  after  hour,  almost  continuously  fling- 
ing over  the  leaves,  often  turning  back,  while  Evelyn, 
tireless,  threaded  his  way  through  the  maze  of  a  full 
orchestral  score,  whistling  strains  for  flute  or  clari- 
net, humming  the  solo  voice  parts  under  his  breath 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  133 

or  nasalising  them  in  his  soft  falsetto.  The  fire  had 
gone  out  and  the  room  had  grown  cold.  Meredith 
moved  to  a  side  table  and  without  formality  mixed 
himself  a  drink  to  his  liking,  set  down  the  empty 
glass,  and  turned  again  to  Evelyn.  "You  won't  get 
that  produced  in  England." 

"No,  I  know  I  shan't,"  said  Evelyn  without  hesi- 
tation. "Not  in  my  lifetime." 

"You  might  in  France  or  Italy.  Dresden  would 
have  jumped  at  it  before  the  war." 

"Great  nuisance,  the  war." 

"Yes,"  said  Meredith,  accepting  the  point  of  view 
without  irony.  "It  did  knock  things  to  pieces  for 
Pantaloon  and  Harlequin.  Have  you  the  rest  of 
this  in  your  head?  I  suppose  so,  or  you  wouldn't 
have  let  me  see  what's  done." 

"Yes :  I  know  what  I  want  and  how  to  get  it.  If 
one  could  only  write  as  fast  as  one  thinks !  There's 
a  scene  in  Act  IV  I  do  want  to  get  on  to — oh,  and 
a  Chorus  of  Flames  in  Act  V.  .  .  ."  His  voice  died 
away:  his  eyes,  too  brilliant  for  health  in  that  cold 
London  dawn,  dwelt  on  Meredith  without  seeing  him. 
The  elder  man  gave  an  irritated  laugh. 

"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  fellow,  there  are  no  ladies 
present !"  Evelyn  obviously  missed  the  jibe.  He  was 
listening,  not  to  Meredith,  but  to  the  harmonies  in 
his  own  brain.  Meredith  shook  him  sharply  by  the 
arm.  "Come,  rouse  up — 

"Confound  you,  Meredith,  let  me  alone!" 

He  wrenched  himself  free.  Meredith  for  once  was 
not  offended.  He  mixed  a  second  drink  and  carried 
it  over  to  Evelyn,  who  had  gone  to  the  window  and 
flung  up  the  sash.  "Take  it,  it'll  do  you  good.  Your 


134  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

nerves  are  all  on  edge.  You're  drunk  with  want  of 
sleep,  aren't  you?  and  no  wonder,  after  getting 
through  the  greater  part  of  four  Acts  since  December ! 
You'll  feel  better  when  it's  all  roughed  out  on  paper. 
But,  my  friend,  you  should  go  slow ;  no  work  of  genius 
however  immortal  is  worth  a  nervous  breakdown." 

Evelyn  mechanically  drank  his  brandy  and  soda  but 
paid  no  other  attention  to  Meredith's  warnings:  in- 
deed he  hardly  seemed  to  hear  them.  "Do  you  think 
Millerand  would  take  it?  I'd  rather  burn  the  score 
than  hear  it  badly  produced.  I  should  shoot  myself 
in  the  composer's  box.  Do  you  think  Millerand 
would?" 

Meredith  nodded.  "That's  the  worst  of  our  trade; 
in  painting  or  sculpture  one  has  control  over  one's 
medium,  but  a  musician's  always  at  the  mercy  of  his 
second  fiddle.  But  I  shouldn't  wonder.  It's  pretty 
good  stuff." 

"Do  you  think  so — do  you?" 

No,  Evelyn  had  not  much  self-confidence;  was  in- 
deed rather  more  dependent  on  another  man's  approv- 
al than  a  craftsman  should  be.  Meredith  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  He  was  not  naturally  generous,  and 
his  instinct  was  to  grudge  praise  and  bestow  it 
the  more  sparingly  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  apparent 
need  of  it.  How  childishly  Evelyn  had  behaved! 
scribbling  away  for  dear  life  at  dead  of  night,  till 
his  temper  was  frayed  and  his  nerves  were  in  fiddle- 
strings,  as  if  he  could  not  have  got  on  as  fast  or  faster 
by  working  from  ten  till  one  and  from  two  till  four ! 

"I  don't  say  it's  Prometheus,  or  even  Louise!  It's 
over-written:  weak  too,  shockingly  weak  in  many 
places.  That  quartet  in  Act  I  might  have  come  out  of 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  135 

Maritana.  Your  orchestration  of  course  is  always 
clever,  you  picked  up  the  knack  of  that  under  old 
K.-K.,  but  some  of  the  themes — However,  I  don't  for- 
get that  it's  in  the  rough,  thrown  off  at  top  speed  and 
never  polished.  When  it's  done  I  dare  say  it'll  be 
less  reminiscent  of  Offenbach!" 

"Think  so?"  said  Evelyn  dully.  The  light  and  life 
and  colour  had  faded  out  of  his  face.  "Offenbach? 
I  didn't  think  it  was  much  like  Offenbach." 

How  soon  his  spirits  were  dashed !  He  was  a  spoilt 
child  no  doubt,  and  too  much  sugar  was  not  good  for 
him ;  and  yet  the  change  in  him  made  Meredith  feel 
uncomfortable. 

"But  I'll  do  my  best  to  smooth  your  way  with  Mil- 
lerand.  He's  the  man  for  you,  no  one  else  would  do 
it  such  thorough  justice."  Meredith  whistled  the 
delicate  melody  that  foreshadowed  the  steps  of  the 
heroine.  "Charming  little  air  that,  so  fresh  and 
haunting."  Evelyn's  face  had  begun  to  brighten 
again,  and  Meredith  was  glad  of  it.  "How  long  do 
you  reckon  it  will  take  you  to  finish?" 

"Six  months." 

"Six  months  during  which  you  won't  take  any  con- 
cert engagements?  Whew!"  Meredith's  eye  roved 
round  the  expensive  flat.  He  was  not  acquainted  with 
Evelyn's  money  affairs  except  so  far  as  they  impinged 
on  his  own,  but  it  seemed  natural  to  conclude  that  for 
a  young  professional  man  just  married  six  months' 
holiday  might  prove  an  expensive  luxury.  "What 
will  Smith  say?" 

"Dimmie  will  raise  a  dust.  But  Dimmie's  not  the 
point."  Evelyn  gathered  up  the  score,  shuffling  the 
loose  leaves  into  place.  He  handled  it  as  if  he  loved 


136  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

it.  "This  must  come  first.  From  what  you  say  it 
evidently  wants  a  lot  more  work  put  into  it,  even 
more  than  I  knew.  I  don't  get  half  enough  time  for  it, 
you  see,  nor  enough  quiet,  I'm  always  being  called 
off  by  some  damned  irrelevance.  It's  all  so  difficult, 
working  under  present  conditions.  ..."  He  checked 
himself,  repressing  a  sigh.  "No,  I  know  it  won't 
pay — Dimmie's  old  tour  would  bring  in  ten  times  what 
I  shall  ever  get  from  Clair  de  Lune.  But  what  concern 
is  it  of  Dimmie's  if  I  choose  to  go  out  into  the  wilder- 
ness?" 

"H'm :  no."  Meredith  was  longing  to  put  a  ques- 
tion. It  might  pass  for  an  impertinence,  but  couldn't 
one  trust  Charles  Evelyn  not  to  detect  any  dash  of 
curiosity  that  mingled  with  friendly  regard?  "What 
about  Mrs.  Evelyn — will  she  want  to  go  out  into  the 
wilderness  too?"  Evelyn  looked  up  with  a  start. 
His  wife's  name  seemed  to  rouse  him  at  last,  and 
Meredith  was  the  annoyed  spectator  of  a  transforma- 
tion which  had  taken  place  once  or  twice  before  in 
his  presence,  but  never  as  the  result  of  an  indiscre- 
tion of  his  own.  The  careless  expansive  Bohemian 
dislimned  and  in  his  shoes  stood  the  country  squire 
entrenched  in  courteous  and  easy  reserve. 

"My  wife?  You  must  hear  her  sing  one  of  these 
days.  I  never  let  her  perform  except  before  good 
judges  It's  a  small  little  voice,  but  you  would  appre- 
ciate her  style." 

Regret,  it  has  been  said,  is  the  last  grace  of  good 
breeding;  but  Meredith  had  never  apologised  in  his 
life.  In  the  war  he  had  acquired  an  unwelcome  Mili- 
tary Cross  by  sticking  to  a  theoretically  untenable 
position,  and  his  instinct  was  to  defend  by  attacking. 


CLAIR  DE  LUKE  137 

"Thanks,  I  should  love  to.  Oh  by  the  by,  do  I 
gather  that  Sophy  still  has  the  flat  overhead?  Last 
time  we  met,  soon  after  your  marriage,  she  talked  of 
shifting  her  quarters,  but  it  struck  me  then  that  when 
it  came  to  the  point  she  would  stay  on." 

"She  has  stayed  on." 

"How  awkward!" 

"Why?" 

Meredith  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Do  you  cut 
her  when  you're  with  your  wife?" 

Evelyn  waited  to  shut  the  window  and  to  remind 
himself  that  everyone  knew  Meredith  had  a  queer 
temper  and  a  rough  side  to  his  tongue.  The  old  good- 
humoured  smile  was  on  Evelyn's  lips  when  he  turned 
round.  "Thanks  most  awfully  for  listening  to  all  my 
feeble  stuff,  I  never  meant  to  keep  you  up  all  night." 

Meredith  moved  towards  the  stairs.  But  with  his 
hand  on  the  rail  he  hesitated.  They  were  old  friends, 
he  was  genuinely  fond  of  Evelyn,  the  snub,  if  it  was 
a  snub,  had  been  deserved,  and  persistently  his  con- 
science pricked  him  for  a  want  of  candour  in  his 
praise  of  Clair  de  Lune,  that  stinted  praise  that  com- 
monly betrays  the  working  of  some  obscure  under- 
ground jealousy.  Most  of  his  criticisms  were  true, 
but  what  had  they  left  out?  "The  greatest  gift  of  all, 
that  of  life,  which  the  public  always  recognises." 
This  gift  Clair  de  Lune  possessed ;  thougli  it  was  un- 
equal and  full  of  faults,  now  dull  and  now  over-writ- 
ten, it  was  written  with  a  full  pen. — All  that  marriage 
had  done  for  Evelyn  had  gone  into  it — the  bad  and 
the  good,  the  interruptions  and  irritations,  the  moods 
of  depression  and  gloom,  but  also  the  harrowing  of 
soil  long  fallow  and  the  upturning  of  instincts  which 


138  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

when  denied  other  outlet  found  vent  in  work. — 
Was  he  really  such  a  curmudgeon  as  to  be  jealous 
of  Evelyn?  Would  he  have  said  more,  and  more 
warmly,  if  his  secret  soul  had  not  persisted  in  drawing 
comparisons  between  the  power,  the  freshness,  the 
fascination  of  that  rough  MS.,  and  the  deskful  of  deli- 
cate lifeless  stuff  at  home,  which  his  refined  taste  had 
first  polished  out  of  all  inelegance  and  then  condemned 
for  the  poverty  of  the  raw  material? 

A  latent  generosity  in  Meredith  was  ready  to  meet 
Evelyn  halfway.  But  Evelyn,  white  with  fatigue  and 
disappointment,  had  apparently  forgotten  his  exist- 
ence. Dropping  with  sleep,  one  hand  already  raised 
to  unfasten  his  collar,  he  moved  towards  Kitty's  door 
and  softly  turned  the  handle  without  knocking. 

Something  in  the  simplicity  and  familiarity  of  that 
action  seemed  to  take  Meredith  by  the  throat.  He 
let  himself  out  of  the  flat  and  walked  home.  A  fine 
rain  was  falling  and  the  clouds  were  the  colour  of 
smoke.  A  yellow  steam  pressed  against  the  windows 
of  his  rooms  in  Streets  Mews,  so  cheerless  with  their 
layer  of  dust  and  the  ashes  of  last  night's  fire.  Some 
men  have  all  the  luck — Clair  de  Lune  and  Kitty's 
love  .  .  .  and  what  on  earth  had  Evelyn  ever  done  to 
deserve  it?  Wasn't  he  even  half  inclined  to  regret 
his  marriage?  "Hang  it,"  Meredith  reflected  with  a 
touch  of  brutality  under  his  amusement,  "before  go- 
ing into  the  wilderness,  my  friend,  you  might  have 
paid  for  those  sapphires !" 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE  warm  May  night  three  weeks  later  Kitty 
came  out  of  her  bedroom  between  two  and 
three  in  the  morning  and  softly  opened  the 
drawingroom  door.  She  had  thrown  on  one  of  those 
Chinese  wrappers  that  remind  one  of  peacock  but- 
terflies or  stained  glass,  her  feet  were  bare,  and  her 
fair  hair  hung  down  her  back  in  two  pigtails  and 
made  her  look  like  a  child.  She  had  altered  little 
since  her  marriage.  There  were  still  no  signs  of  care 
on  her  face,  and  London  had  not  begun  to  fade  her 
bloom. 

She  stole  through  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
The  windows  were  open  and  the  fresh  river-scent  of 
Chelsea  breathed  in  out  of  a  glimmering  dusk :  it  was 
hardly  dawn  yet,  but  there  were  among  the  clouds 
pale  fingerings  of  light,  the  prelude  of  dawn  to  come. 
In  the  room  it  was  dark  but  for  a  couple  of  electric 
candles  at  the  piano  where  Evelyn  was  toiling  over 
the  score  of  Clair  de  Lune. 

Kitty  sat  down  on  the  windowsill  and  waited  for 
him  to  notice  her.  Bufr  he  did  not  notice  her  because 
he  never  raised  his  head,  and  an  alarm  of  fire  would 
hardly  have  penetrated  to  his  brain  through  the  flood 
of  silent  harmony  that  beat  on  it: 

Music  heard  is  sweet,  but  sounds  unheard 
Are  sweeter, 

139 


140  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

and  the  strings  and  harps  and  clarinets  that  filled 
Evelyn's  ear  were  those  of  the  Dance  of  Flames  in 
his  Fourth  Act,  which  was  later  to  become  so  famous 
as  to  be  played  on  barrel-organs  and  in  bar  parlours 
and  by  the  jaded  orchestras  of  fivepenny  cinema-shows. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  he  did  not  hear  the  entrance 
of  his  wife. 

He  was  still  working  day  and  night,  at  tension: 
refusing  all  professional  engagements,  and  social  so 
far  as  what  he  called  a  gross  want  of  moral  courage 
allowed :  never  willingly  leaving  the  flat  unless  Kitty 
or  Hurst  or  Meredith  drove  him  out  of  it.  He  was  in- 
capable of  rudeness  in  his  own  house,  and  when  people 
came  to  see  him  he  was  charming  to  them,  and  when 
his  friends  laid  violent  hands  on  him  he  yielded,  under 
pressure,  with  a  grateful  apologetic  smile,  for  just 
so  long  as  the  pressure  was  maintained;  but  when 
they  grew  tired  or  were  called  away  he  reverted  auto- 
matically to  the  piano.  He  got  to  sleep  when  he  could 
not  keep  awake,  now  for  four  or  five  hours  in  the 
night,  now  for  odd  moments  by  day.  It  was  in  April 
that  he  suggested,  or  Kitty  suggested — she  never  knew 
exactly  how  it  came  about — putting  up  a  bed  in  his 
dressing  room  so  that  his  irregularities  might  not  dis- 
turb his  wife.  Kitty  acquiesced  as  she  did  in  all 
his  wishes ;  which  was  not  going  far,  for  during  those 
months  of  travail  he  rarely  expressed  any  wish  at 
all. 

He  was  not  irritable,  except  under  criticism,  and 
even  Hurst,  an  apostle  of  the  decent  and  orderly 
(Wright's  epigram  deserved  its  circulation  by  its 
truth  at  least:  "Don't  talk  to  Hurst  about  tempera- 
ment. It's  a  red  rag  to  a  John  Bull"),  had  to  own 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  141 

that  he  seemed  able  to  survive  a  life  which  would 
have  killed  most  men.  To  Kitty  he  was  uniformly 
kind  and  charming.  Gossip  said  it  was  a  household 
in  a  thousand — one  of  those  marriages  that  reassure 
those  who  despair  of  marriage.  The  only  sceptics 
were  Kitty  herself  and  George  Dent,  who  used  to 
frown  with  a  bewildered  expression  over  Kitty's  can- 
did, cheerful  letters,  and  the  affectionate  half-sheets 
that  came  now  and  then  from  his  brother-in-law, 
scribbled  all  over,  round  the  sides  and  across  the 
corners,  with  saucy  vignettes  of  "the  Kitty-wee." 

Kitty  sat  and  watched  him  for  a  long  while.  She 
was  a  born  tease  and  loved  to  watch  people  at  un- 
awares— a  trick  that  has  for  some  of  us  the  illicit 
lure  of  a  private  letter  that  has  come  innocently  into 
our  hands.  Evelyn  evidently  had  not  one  thought 
to  spare  from  his  work.  He  had  dragged  up  a  table 
to  the  piano  and  sat  brooding  in  a  crumpled  attitude 
over  the  score  of  that  famous  Fourth  Act.  He  had 
one  leg  tucked  up  under  him,  his  collar  and  tie  were 
on  the  floor,  and  his  shirt  was  unbuttoned  at  the 
throat,  while  the  damp  waves  of  hair  were  going  this 
way  and  that  without  trace  of  a  parting.  Once,  when 
he  had  to  turn  back  to  Act  I  and  the  pages  stuck,  Kitty 
saw  him  first  scuffle  them  over  at  a  rate  of  impatience 
which  tore  their  edges,  and  then  facilitate  the  pro- 
cess by  licking  his  fingers.  She  smiled:  the  eternal 
schoolboy ! 

The  clock  struck  four,  and  Evelyn  gave  a  great 
frank  yawn  and  put  his  head  down  on  his  arm.    Kitty's 
eyes  were  full  of  a  profound  maternal  tender  m-< 
Was  he  going  to  sleep  where  he  sat?    Just  like  him ! 
but  not  good  for  him,  and  not  to  be  allowed,  for  she 


142  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

had  some  difficult  news  to  break,  and  this,  the  interval 
between  knocking  off  work  and  falling  into  bed,  was 
the  only  hour  in  the  twenty-four  when  she  could  fairly 
count  on  gaining  his  undivided  attention. 

She  slipped  across  the  room  like  a  ghost,  the  Chi- 
nese coat  half  open  over  the  Saxon  fairness  of  her 
shoulders.  Her  instinct  was  to  take  him  in  her  arms. 
She  curbed  it  because  he  disliked  any  sudden  touch, 
and  contented  herself  with  saying  his  name  softly 
and  clearly  and  in  her  most  commonplace  tones: 
"Evelyn,  dear— 

"Good  God!"  Evelyn  leapt  to  his  feet  overturning 
the  music  stool,  "is  there  no  peace — ?" 

There  followed  a  moment  of  complete  stillness  dur- 
ing which  Kitty  stood  before  him  like  a  figure  of 
marble,  not  one  thread  waving  in  the  gilt  plait  drawn 
forward  over  her  neck,  and  then  Evelyn  came  to  her 
and  kissed  her  hand. 

"Dear,  I'm  so  desperately  sorry !  I  didn't  mean  it 
for  you.  I  was  just  trying  to  work  out  a  stiff  bit  of 
counterpoint  in  my  head." 

"I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"Evidently  I  ought  to  be !  Here's  a  pretty  state  of 
things,  isn't  it,  when  the  Kitty-wee  gets  her  little 
velvet  paw  slapped?  Cheer  up!  quite  soon  Glair  will 
be  finished,  and  then  you'll  have  a  husband  again,  and 
then  in  half  no  time  you'll  be  sighing  for  the  happy 
days  of  grass  widowhood.  Heigho !"  He  yawned 
afresh,  but  discreetly,  behind  his  hand.  "What's 
o'clock?  After  four?  My  word,  Kitty,  what  are  you 
doing  out  of  bed  at  this  hour?  Go  back  at  once! 
what  would  George  say?" 

"You're  not  going  to  work  any  more?" 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  143 

"Not  to-night.  I  shall  now  turn  in  and  sleep  like 
a  top.  My  head  is  spinning!  Seriously,  I  do  begin 
to  feel  as  if  the  long  strain  were  telling  on  me ;  I  have 
worked  pretty  hard  ever  since  December."  Kitty  ex- 
pressed no  sympathy.  She  had  never  before  heard 
Evelyn  complain  of  his  health ;  he  and  she  had  been 
bred  in  the  same  Spartan  tradition  of  ignoring  the 
body  so  long  as  one  could  stand  on  one's  legs,  and  if 
he  now  began  to  pity  himself  it  could  only  be  by  way 
of  taking  cover  from  a  more  serious  admission.  She 
returned  to  the  window  and  wrapped  herself  more 
closely  in  her  coat ;  the  dawn  air  had  no  chill  in  it  but 
Kitty  was  trembling. 

"Don't  go  yet,  I  came  in  to  talk  to  you.  At  break- 
fast people  will  be  in  and  out,  and  directly  after  you'll 
be  at  the  piano  again,  and  you  really  are  no  use  to 
anyone  when  you're  once  drowned  in  Clair  de  Lunc." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Evelyn,  smiling  broadly. 
"Write  a  book  and  call  it  The  Composer's  Wife,  or, 
Repenting  at  Leisure.  But  the  sooner  I  get  it  done, 
darling,  the  sooner  I  shall  be  able  to  return  to  concert 
work  and  bring  in  the  dibs :  and  we  do  want  the  dibs." 
He  sat  down  by  Kitty.  "Very  badly  we  da  I  had 
a  painful  shock  to-day.  A  letter  from  the  bank.  It 
seems  I'm  overdrawn.  There's  nothing  new  in  that, 
I  generally  am ;  but  the  nuisance  of  it  is  that  they've 
a  new  manager  vice  Fenwick  retired,  and  he  doesn't 
seem  to  want  me  to  overdraw  any  more!  Would  be 
glad  if  I  could,  etc.,  etc.  Dashed  impudence  I  call 
it,  considering  that  we've  banked  with  them  ever 
since  they  were  founded.  Someone  must  have  been 
putting  the  wind  up  him." 

"How  exceedingly  trying!" 


144  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

**It  is,  because  what  with  death  duties  and  legal 
expenses  I'm  run  up  so  short  just  now.  If  I  could 
either  let  or  sell  Temple  Evelyn  it  would  oil  the 
wheels,  but  it's  a  bad  season,  so  house  agents  tell  me, 
for  that  sort  of  property:  nobody  wants  to  buy  a 
big  old-fashioned  place  now  because  servants  won't 
stop  unless  they  can  have  all  the  modern  improve- 
ments. So  that  funds  really  are  low  for  the  minute. 
In  fact  I  shouldn't  have  known  where  to  lay  my 
hands  on  the  rent  last  Lady  Day  if — but  that's  neither 
here  nor  there." 

"You  never  told  me  you  were  so  hard  up!"  said 
Kitty,  startled.  "Indeed,  Eve,  I  wish  you  would 
have  warned  me.  I  would  have  been  more  economical 
if  I  had  only  known.  Look  at  that  fur  coat  of  mine 
and  those  new  evening  dresses!  You  said  'Go  to 
Lucille,'  so  I  did,  but  I  could  just  as  well  have  gone 
to  Kensington,  and  they  ran  into  a  lot  of  money." 

"Your  own  money,  my  dear." 

"What  does  that  signify?  I  suppose  I  am  your 
wife!" 

"Yes,  adored  one :  but  for  all  that  you  are  not  go- 
ing to  pay  my  rent  out  of  your  allowance  from  George. 
Oh,  it's  only  a  temporary  embarrassment;  it'll  be  all 
right  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to  concert  work  and  there's 
some  cash  coming  in.  It  was  Philip's  dying  so  inop- 
portunely that  let  me  down.  Not  that  I  blame  Philip 
— if  he  could  have  foreseen  what  was  going  to  happen 
I  don't  doubt  he  would  have  made  arrangements ! 
It  must  have  been  an  awful  blow  to  him  to  reflect 
that  he  wasn't  leaving  enough  ready  money  to  pay 
for  his  funeral." 

"Oh  well,  I  suppose  it'll  all  come  right,"  said  Kitty 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  145 

vaguely.  She  really  did  not  care  enough  for  the 
topic  to  pursue  it.  Except  for  an  inborn  horror  of 
debt,  she  was  indifferent  to  money,  and  her  solution 
of  a  financial  difficulty  would  have  been  as  simple 
as  Evelyn's:  his  was  to  borrow,  hers  to  stop  spend- 
ing. Meredith  had  taken  for  granted  that  the  shrewd 
business  head  was  allied  to  a  commercial  spirit,  but 
he  was  wrong,  for  Kitty  would  have  been  quite  ready 
to  go  out  into  the  wilderness  and  live  on  twopence- 
halfpenny  a  day;  where  she  drew  the  line  was  at 
running  up  bills,  the  bills  of  an  expensive  double  flat, 
without  the  means  of  paying  them.  "But  never  mind 
that  now,"  she  went  on,  "there's  something  more 
serious  I  want  to  say  to  you."  She  sat  looking  out 
of  the  window,  presenting  to  him  her  face  in  profile, 
delicate,  blooming,  a  trifle  stern.  "It  isn't  easy." 

"Mon  Dieu,  I  guess!" 

"What?" 

"You're  going  to  have  a  baby." 

"Should  you  be  glad  ?    It  would  be  a  fresh  expense." 

"Kitty,  I'm  shocked."  Evelyn  picked  up  one  of 
her  plaits  and  wound  it  round  her  throat.  "Expense 
is  no  longer  an  object.  You  look  such  a  dear  little 
girly-wirly  with  your  hair  down.  But  I  don't  call  it 
proper  for  you  to  be  indulging  in  such  luxuries  when 
you're  only  half  out  of  the  nursery  yourself— 

"No,  no!"  She  turned  to  him,  smiling  yet  wistful. 
"You've  guessed  wrong.  If  you're  disappointed  I'm 
sorry,  but  it's  early  days  yet,  and  perhaps  when— 
when  you  come  back  to  me  ...  my  dearest.  ...  It 
isn't  that  at  all."  Evelyn's  features  showed  an  in- 
distinct relief,  though  he  was  too  polite  to  express  it. 

"That  was  a  complete  sell,  darling,  but  it  was  your 


146  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

fault.  The  mise  en  scene  was  ideal."  He  waved  his 
arm  to  indicate  the  breaking  dawn,  the  sepia  clouds, 
the  sepia  woods  of  Chelsea.  "And  you  look  a  little 
piano  too,  as  if  you  were  feeling  modest.  Well,  if  it 
isn't  that,  what  is  it?" 

"I  feel  pianissimo.  I  feel  ashamed.  I  ought  to  have 
been  more  cautious,  but  somehow  I  never  thought  of 
it."  Evelyn  looked  mute  interrogation.  "I  have  been 
obliged  to  tell  Mr.  Meredith  not  to  come  here  any 
more/'  said  Kitty  soberly. 

"Kitty!" 

"I  am  so  very  sorry  and  ashamed." 

"Do  you  mean  he  turned  up  drunk?"  said  Evelyn, 
incredulous.  "Edmund  Meredith?  why,  he  scarcely 
ever  touches  anything  stronger  than  soda-water!" 

"My  dear  Eve,  if  he  had  done  that  I  should  have 
told  him  to  go  home  and  go  to  bed.  Why,  I've  seen 
George  drunk  once!  No,  he  had  not  that  excuse." 

"But  what  then — did  you  have  a  quarrel  with  him?" 

"You're  not  quick  to  understand,  are  you?  He 
made  love  to  me." 

"Made  love  to  you?"  Evelyn  echoed  stupidly. 

"You  are  not  under  the  impression,  are  you,  that 
no  one  has  ever  fallen  in  love  with  me  but  you? — 
The  strange  thing  is  that  I  never  saw  it  till  now :  he 
has  been  here  time  after  time,  when  you  were  in  and 
when  you  weren't,  and  I've  always  liked  him  so  much 
and  trusted  him  so  absolutely!  With  an  innocence 
which  really  ought  to  have  disarmed  him,  I  liked  him 
because  he  was  more  your  friend  than  mine !  But  it 
seems  he  has  been  falling,  or  rather  crawling  into 
love  with  me  all  this  spring.  Earlier,  too :  before  we 
were  married.  He  declares  he  never  recovered  from 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  147 

his  little  fit  of  fascination  last  summer.  At  all  events 
there  was  no  doubt  about  it  when  it  came.  He  was 
extremely  frank." 

"He  made  love  to  you?  Meredith? — When?" 
"This  afternoon,  while  you  were  out  with  Mr.  Hurst. 
He  came  in  to  tea.  We  were  sitting  in  the  window,  he 
was  smoking  and  I  was  knitting,  when  without  warn- 
ing ...  I  was  almost  as  slow  at  understanding  him 
as  you  were  at  understanding  me.  But  in  the  end 
he  lost  his  head  and  behaved  very  badly." 
"He  insulted  you?  What  did  he  do?" 
"Oh!  he  didn't  do  anything,"  said  Kitty  with  a 
faint  shade  of  irony:  "what  can  a  man  do  in  those 
circumstances?  But  he  said  a  great  deal.  No,  don't 
cross-examine  me;  however  wrong  it  was  of  him  I 
shall  spare  his  sensitiveness.  You  would  not  like  it, 
would  you,  if  you  gave  yourself  away  before  a  woman 
and  she  gave  you  away  to  another  man?  All  young 
married  women  have  worries  like  this  now  and  again, 
and  I  never  should  have  said  anything  about  it  if 
it  weren't  that  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  not  to  come 
any  more.  I  was  sorry  for  him  and  I  still  am.  When 
he  sits  down  and  reviews  the  scene  in  cold  blood  it 
will  be  punishment  enough." 

"So  you  turned  him  out?  the  hound!"  said  Evelyn. 
He  stood  by  the  open  window,  his  pale  face  raised 
as  if  he  liked  the  wind  on  it.  "The  cowardly  hound ! 
He  deserves  to  be  shot." 

"But  you  don't  propose  to  shoot  him,  I  hope?"  said 
Kitty,  startled.  In  his  preoccupation  with  Clair  de 
Lune  Evelyn  was  so  careless  that  she  had  scarcely 
expected  him  to  feel  any  anger  at  all.  She  had  hoped 
he  would.  Even  an  artist  ought  to  remain  jealous 


148  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

for  the  honour  of  his  wife!  But  there  seemed  to  be 
something  deeper  than  anger  working  in  him;  she 
was  perplexed  by  this  white  heat  of  scorn. 

"To  shoot  him?  No.  .  .  .  What  sort  of  balance  does 
George  generally  keep  at  the  bank?" 

"As  low  as  he  can.    Why?" 

"I  owe  Meredith  two  hundred  pounds." 

"Two  hundred  pounds!" 

"And  more.  I  was  so  hard  up  at  the  time  of  our 
marriage." 

"You've  owed  him  this  sum  ever  since  we  were  mar- 
ried? What  for?" 

"Manton's,  chiefly.  Part  of  the  rent,  too,  last  Lady 
Day;  but  Manton's  accounted  for  most  of  it — the 
time  I  took  him  round  to  choose  your  present.  He 
knew  I  was  run  up  short  and  he  offered  to  settle  for 
me,  sat  down  and  wrote  a  cheque  then  and  there; 
said  after  our  years  of  friendship  he  should  feel  hurt 
if  I  didn't  give  him  the  preference  over  the  Jews." 
This  was  not  a  deliberate  gloss.  It  was  what  had 
happened,  as  seen  across  the  refracting  glass  of  Eve- 
lyn's memory.  "He  made  me  take  it." 

Kitty  felt  a  benumbed  sensation  creeping  over  her. 
"Do  you  mean  that  it  was  Mr.  Meredith  who  chose 
and  paid  for  my  sapphires?" 

"Rather.     That  was  your  price,  Kitty." 

"I  am  certain  you're  wrong,"  said  Kitty  in  a  low 
voice.  She  was :  fresh  from  the  scene  of  Meredith's 
distress  and  passion,  nothing  would  have  made  her 
believe  that  he  had  done  it  on  purpose.  He  had  made 
love  to  her  because  he  loved  her,  he  had  lent  Evelyn 
money  because  he  loved  Evelyn ;  such  inconsistencies 
of  conduct  are  not  uncommon,  though  they  wear  an 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  149 

ugly  look  when  held  up  together  to  the  light  of  day. 
But  Evelyn  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  plea,  still  less 
to  be  moved  by  it. 

"I  must  get  the  money  to-day.  Intolerable!"  He 
glanced  at  his  watch.  "Half  past  four,  and  there'll 
be  no  business  doing  till  ten.  Six  hours  to  wait!" 

"Are  you  going  to  the  Jews  after  all?" 

"I  must  get  the  money,  and  at  once." 

"Won't  you  use  mine?  If  I  telephoned  to  George 
he  would  advance  it."  He  stopped  her  by  a  gesture. 
"But  why — why  not?" 

"What,  borrow  your  money  to  pay  my  debt  to  a 
hound  that  has  insulted  you?" 

She  was  unable  to  follow  his  train  of  thought.  "But 
if  it  comes  to  that  the  sapphires  are  mine!  It  is  as 
much  my  debt  as  yours.  Oh,  Eve,  I  don't  think  you 
ever  quite  realise  that  I  am  your  wife!  Don't  go  to  a 
money-lender.  Let  me  give  it  you,  or  lend  it  you  if 
you  like;  you  can  pay  me  interest  on  it  if  that  will 
content  you."  He  stopped  her  again. 

"Understand  once  and  for  all,  Kitty,  I  will  not 
touch  your  money.  I'll  settle  my  own  scores." 

"Are  you  going  to  quarrel  with  Mr.  Meredith?" 

"Not  till  I've  paid  him." 

"You  won't  make  a  scene— a  scandal?" 

"You  can  be  certain  that  I  shall  keep  your  name  out 
of  it." 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?" 

"With  you?  no!  why  should  I  be?  It  isn't  your 
fault." 

But  if  he  was  not  angry  he  was  very,  very  cold.  It 
was  for  his  own  honour  that  he  was  jealous,  not  for 
hers.  The  quarrel  lay  between  him  and  Meredith, 


150  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

and  Kitty  was  only  an  outsider.  She  felt  as  though 
a  film  of  ice  had  formed  between  them,  and  relentlessly 
her  young  bosom  was  pressed  against  it  till  she  was 
almost  dying  of  the  chill  of  it. 

"Perhaps  it  was,  partly.  I'm  used  to  a  certain 
amount  of  admiration;  I've  had  it  all  my  life,  even 
from  you  till  after  we  were  married.  Mr.  Meredith 
said  I  had  led  him  on,  and  perhaps  I  did  unconsciously 
show  that  I  liked  his  pleasant  manners  and  the  at- 
mosphere of  compliment  that  he  throws  round  one. 
I  haven't  had  it  from  you,  Eve,  these  five  months 
since  we  were  married.  You're  always  charming 
when  you  remember  my  existence,  but  I  believe  you 
forget  me  as  soon  as  I'm  out  of  the  room." 

"No,  I  never  forget  you,"  said  Evelyn,  looking  at 
her  strangely. 

A  film  of  ice:  one  must  break  it  or  die.  Kitty 
flushed.  Moment  by  moment  the  silver  currents  of 
dawn  were  beginning  to  run  among  the  black  and 
brown  clouds  of  night  over  London.  "Eve,  come 
here."  He  came  to  her  with  his  swift  courtesy.  Kitty 
had  risen.  "Can't  you  remember  me  and  forget  Mr. 
Meredith?  Oh,  Eve,  life's  too  short  for  quarrelling! 
Take  my  money  and  pay  him  and  let  him  go.  He  is 
frightfully  unhappy  already,  and  your  repayment  will 
cut  him  very  deep.  He'll  probably  leave  England. 
Let  him  go!  Why  should  we  trouble  about  a  third 
person— an  outsider?  We  have  each  other."  She 
opened  her  coat  and  drew  down  Evelyn's  head  to  her 
breast.  "Dear,  don't  be  so  restless !  You're  overtired ; 
you  wouldn't  be  so  hot  and  impatient  if  you  weren't 
almost  worn  out  for  want  of  sleep.  Oh  come  to  me, 
Eve!  can't  I  make  you  forget?" 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  151 

"Don't  hold  me.  .  .  ."  the  cry  rose  to  Evelyn's  lips, 
he  crushed  it  down  with  difficulty.  It  was  long  since 
Kitty  had  wooed  him  in  this  fashion,  and  with  his 
dangerous  talent  for  living  in  the  present  he  had  hoped 
she  never  would  again.  After  the  intense  mental 
fatigue  of  his  long  travail  over  Glair  de  Lune  the  fresh 
strain  tried  him  almost  beyond  endurance:  he  could 
just  bear  it,  and  no  more.  Response  was  impossible. 

"How  white  you  are!"  said  Kitty  in  an  altered 
voice.  "Aren't  you  well?" 

"Yes,  darling,  only  fagged  out.  Too  fagged  to  ap- 
preciate my  privileges!  Not  now.  .  .  ."  He  raisedj 
himself  out  of  her  arms  and  mechanically  paid  her 
some  compliment,  the  silver  coin  which  was  all  he' 
had  to  give  in  exchange  for  her  gold.  Kitty  had  begun 
to  tremble  again.  He  saw  it,  and  without  in  the  least 
understanding  what  he  had  done  tried  languidly  to 
satisfy  her.  It  was  a  degree  less  difficult  whenever 
he  was  released  from  immediate  physical  contact. 
"Cover  yourself  Tip,  my  darling,  this  night  air  coming 
in  feels  chilly.  Ought  you  not  to  go  back  to  bed  now? 
You're  losing  all  your  beauty  sleep.  Oh,  your  little 
bare  feet  on  these  polished  boards !  Kitty,  you'll  catch 
a  most  awful  cold,  and  then  George  will  blame  me. 
Come,  put  your  little  paws  round  my  neck  and  I'll 
carry  you."  He  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  still  as  light 
and  soft  as  a  child,  and  as  pliant,  and  as  rosy,  and 
yet  in  some  indefinable  way  withdrawn  out  of  his 
reach.  "Do  you  remember  that  morning  in  the  Hunt- 
ing Tower?  How  long  ago  it  seems !  .  .  .  Perhaps  I 
won't  have  a  row  with  Meredith  after  all.  I  expect  he 
couldn't  help  himself,  you're  so  sweet." 

"Are  you — are  you  coming  with  me?" 


152  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Rather!"  He  would  have  given  a  year  of  his  life 
to  refuse. 

"But  I  would  rather  not — not  now.  .  .  ."  She 
slipped  out  of  his  clasp  at  the  threshold  of  her  room 
and  held  up  a  small  hand,  defending  it.  "You're  so 
tired:  and  I'm  tired  too.  And  you're  so  restless 
when  you're  tired." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  Evelyn.  He  was  too  tired 
to  be  able  entirely  to  conceal  the  relief  he  felt  under 
the  relaxation  of  insufferable  strain.  "Good  night, 
then,  my  sweet  one."  He  kissed  her  tenderly ;  would 
have  kissed  her  lips,  but  Kitty  turned  her  head  slightly 
to  offer  him  her  cheek.  Evelyn  in  his  dumb  gratitude 
laughed  as  he  touched  it.  "You  little  shy  rosebud, 
if  I  forget  now  and  then  that  I'm  your  husband,  do 
you  ever  remember  that  you're  my  wife?  You  em- 
brace me  as  if  we  had  just  got  engaged!  Kitty,  you 
deserve  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"A  husband  less  tired  than  I  am.  Heigho!"  He 
stretched  himself  with  another  yawn.  "Never  mind, 
wait  till  Glair's  cleared  out  of  the  way  and  we'll  have 
a  second  honeymoon."  This  was  a  prospect  that  he 
could  face  cheerfully  in  the  remote  future:  events  a 
month  off  never  troubled  Evelyn :  anything  may  hap- 
pen in  a  month.  "Good  night,  my  sweet." 

"Good  night,  Proteus." 

"Hey?    What's  that?" 

"Proteus,"  said  Kitty,  shutting  the  door  between 
them,  "was  an  accomplished  amateur  actor." 


CHAPTER  X 

GEORGE  DENT  missed  his  sister.  He  was  not 
the  man  to  be  bullied  by  his  servants,  and 
the  domestic  staff  at  the  Manor  Farm  con- 
tinued to  make  him  comfortable  partly  because  he 
gave  them  good  wages  and  partly  because  he  had  the 
knack  of  getting  good  work  out  of  people;  but  the 
house  felt  quiet,  the  meals  were  dull  and  the  evenings 
long  unless  he  went  out  to  dinner  somewhere,  and 
going  out  to  dinner  was  what  he  called  a  fag  after  a 
long  day  in  the  saddle.  Indifferent  to  the  opinion 
of  his  neighbours,  in  the  spring  after  Kitty's  marriage 
he  was  often  to  be  seen  working  on  the  farm  in  his 
shirtsleeves,  through  sun  and  wind  and  rain ;  he  loved 
the  land,  its  labour  as  well  as  its  fruit;  not  one  of 
his  own  ploughmen  could  drive  a  straighter  furrow 
than  their  master. 

One  May  morning  he  rode  down  to  Bird's  Pastures 
to  see  how  the  hay  harvest  was  coming  on.  It  was 
one  of  those  days  of  very  early  summer  when  the  land- 
scape is  painted  chiefly  in  the  colours  of  mediocrity, 
blue  and  green :  a  sky  of  pearl  and  forget-me-not  gleam- 
ing over  wide  acres  of  soft,  springing  grass,  watered  by 
little  brooks  that  ran  and  chattered  and  flashed  in 
the  sunshine,  so  shallow  that  the  wagtails  came  down 
to  bathe  in  them,  darting  arrowy  sparkles  this  way 
and  that  with  every  flirt  of  their  tails.  Perfume  after 
perfume,  in  layers,  pervaded  the  countryside  as  Dent 
rode  along:  spicy  in  the  village  full  of  wallflowers  in 

153 


154  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

cottage  gardens:  honied  almost  beyond  the  pleasure 
of  mortal  sense  under  the  ivied  wall  of  an  orchard  rosy 
with  apple  blossom ;  fresher  and  fainter  beside  a  field 
of  clover;  honied  again  in  open  fallows  dedicated  to 


The  beanflower's  boon, 
And  the  blackbird's  tune, 
And  May,  and  June. 

And  everywhere  in  upland  and  water-meadow  the 
mays  were  out,  the  citadel-mays  of  Cambridgeshire, 
branches  embossed  in  dense  bloom,  ramparts  and 
towers  of  snow. 

Dent  loved  it  all.  His  immediate  mission  was  to 
rate  George  Basham,  aged  fifty-eight,  for  omitting  to 
oil  the  new  hay-cutter.  The  elder  men  among  his 
Midland  farm-hands  were  inclined  to  mistrust  machin- 
ery, and  consequently  to  neglect  it.  He  waged  a 
constant  war  against  their  indifference,  which  if  his 
eye  were  not  on  them  would  leave  a  costly  installa- 
tion uncovered  in  the  yard  during  a  night  of  rain. 
Basham,  said  Dent,  would  not  have  thought  of  ask- 
ing his  horses  to  work  unless  they  were  properly  fed ; 
and  how  could  he  expect  the  new  mower  to  get  along 
unless  it  received  equal  care?  Machinery  was  just 
as  delicate  as  horses.  Basham  touched  his  straw  hat 
and  grinned,  privately  regarding  the  new  mower  as 
a  bag  o'  tricks  and  the  old  mare  it  had  supplanted  as 
a  human  being  .  .  .  and  Dent,  whose  sympathies  were 
secretly  with  Basham,  fell  back  and  trotted  off  to 
the  upper  side  of  the  field  to — to  inspect  the  crop,  of 
course:  perhaps  also  to  escape  from  every  human 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  155 

discord  and  taste  the  wide  lonely  sweetness  of  May- 
time,  but  one  was  not  going  to  acknowledge  that  weak- 
ness even  to  oneself. 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  turned  his  face,  burnt  to  a 
beautiful,  uniform  red  bronze,  towards  the  sun.  How 
Kitty  would  have  enjoyed  these  first  warm  days!  If 
she  had  been  at  home  she  would  have  had  her  hands 
full  in  dairy  and  fowl  run,  but  she  would  have  found 
time  to  ride  with  him  on  his  rounds  now  and  again : 
and,  yes,  he  would  have  liked  her  to  be  there,  a  thor- 
oughly sympathetic  companion,  who  would  grumble 
loudly,  like  him,  about  Basham,  and  pretend,  also  like 
him,  not  to  love  every  sight  and  sound  and  scent  of 
May  in  Cambridgeshire.  But  Kitty  was  in  Chelsea 
with  Evelyn,  and  having  a  very  good  time,  no  doubt 
— a  much  better  time  than  at  the  Manor  Farm;  he 
seemed  fond  of  her,  and  Lord  knew  she  was  fond 
enough  of  him.  .  .  . 

Then  under  the  sun's  eye  he  saw  some  one  com- 
ing across  the  fields,  a  woman  in  a  harebell-coloured 
dress  and  a  wide  straw  hat:  not  the  kind  of  woman 
that  would  bring  Basham  a  hot  lunch  tied  up  in  a  red 
handkerchief,  nor  that  other  variety,  in  suede  gloves 
and  fringed  shoes,  irritating  yet  attractive,  that  has 
to  be  politely  shoo'd  out  of  standing  hay,  but  one 
who  walked  dutifully  up  the  hedges,  chess-board  fash- 
ion, as  Kitty  would  have  done.  Yes !  and  from  a  long 
way  off  her  movements  reminded  him  of  the  familiar 
small  trimness  of  Kitty.  He  touched  his  horse  with 
his  heel  and  cantered  towards  her. 

"Kitty!  what's  up?     Anything  wrong?" 

Kitty  stood  by  his  horse's  head,  turning  her  face 
up  to  him  with  a  smile :  her  complexion  as  white  and 


156  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

pink  as  ever,  her  eyes  profound  and  clear.  But  there 
was  a  change  in  her. 

"Good  morning,  George.  They  said  you  were  gone 
to  Bird's  Pastures  so  I  followed  you.  I  came  by  the 
8.30  from  Liverpool  Street.  How  are  the  crops? 
The  hay  looks  well,  and  I  saw  a  lovely  show  of  apple 
blossom  in  the  orchard  on  my  way  down." 

"What's  wrong?" 

"How  men  jump  to  conclusions!  Mayn't  I  come 
and  see  you  now  and  again?  Isn't  there  room  for 
me?" 

Dent  got  off  his  horse  and  began  to  walk  slowly 
back  towards  the  Manor  Farm,  drawing  Kitty's  hand 
through  his  arm.  On  one  side  of  them  stretched  away  a 
wide  hay -meadow,  a  green  tissue  inwoven  with  var- 
nished gold  and  white  and  Tyrian  dyes,  buttercups 
and  daisies  and  the  purple  undergrowth  of  clover: 
and,  on  the  other,  great  branches  of  wild  roses  broke 
out  between  spires  of  may,  while  tangled  below  in 
an  ivy-net  celandines  darted  their  gold  rays  among 
the  purple  turrets  of  ground  ivy.  Unorthodox  farm- 
ing :  but  Dent  declared  that  these  high  Midland  hedge- 
rows were  Nature's  provision  against  the  eternal  tor- 
rent of  Midland  wind.  "You  may  as  well  tell  me 
the  truth  now  as  later,"  he  said  soberly  but  with  a 
friendly  pressure  of  the  arm.  "Has  Eve  chucked 
you?" 

"No,  dear :  I've  chucked  him." 

"Has  he  been  unfaithful  to  you,  Kitty?" 

"H'm :  what  is  faith?  I  do  share  his  heart,  but  the 
other  lady  can't  be  dragged  into  a  divorce  court. 
You've  heard  of  her  before.  She's  called  Clair  de 
Lime." 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  157 

Dent  did  not  enquire  what  Kitty  meant.  He  walked 
on  in  silence,  so  deep  in  thought  that  if  Kitty  had 
not  deflected  him  he  would  have  taken  a  short  cut 
through  the  garden,  without  asking  himself  how 
Black  Beauty,  walking  patiently  at  his  heels,  was  to 
get  over  the  wishing  gate  under  its  cut  arch  of  yew. 
But  when  they  reached  the  house  he  turned  into  his 
own  study,  sat  down  in  his  own  oak  chair,  lit  a  pipe, 
and  quietly  but  firmly  pulled  his  sister  on  his  knee. 
"Now,  Kitty,  you  go  on  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  And 
don't  you  try  to  shield  Evelyn.  If  you  were  to  take 
your  Bible  oath  you  wouldn't  make  me  believe  that 
whatever's  gone  wrong  isn't  his  fault.  At  the  same 
time  I  don't  suppose  he's  altogether  to  blame.  He 
can't  always  help  himself.  There's  a  queer  strain  in 
a  lot  of  these  old  families;  one  can't  exactly  call  it 
a  deficiency,  but  it  certainly  does  produce  want  of 
balance.  Of  course  I  don't  know  whether  there's  any 
definite  misconduct  this  time — anything  he  could  have 
helped.  But  for  all  you  look  as  though  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  your  mouth,  my  dear,  when  you're  crossed 
you  can  be  as  stubborn  as  Carter's  mule.  So  that 
I'm  prepared  to  believe  it  was  six  of  one  and  half  a 
dozen  of  the  other.  It  mostly  is  when  people  are  mar- 
ried. Now  go  on  and  let's  have  the  truth  out  of  you. 
It'll  save  time  because  I  mean  to  have  it  in  the  end." 
Kitty  shivered. 

"The  truth,  George,  is  that  my  marriage  has  been 
all  along  a  mistake.  I  thought  it  was  an  experiment, 
but  now  I  know  it  was  foredoomed — a  foregone  con- 
clusion. It  wasn't  my  fault,  I  did  my  best;  and  it 
wasn't  Eve's  fault  either,  he  never  has  been  less  thnn 
perfect  in  his  manner  to  me— which  by  the  by  ought 


158  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

to  have  warned  me :  when  people  are  happily  married 
they  aren't  eternally  on  their  best  behaviour." 

"I  haven't  a  notion  what  yon're  talking  about.  Pre- 
sumably you  didn't  leave  Evelyn  because  he  was  po- 
lite to  you?" 

"Since  you  will  have  the  truth — yes,  I  did." 

Dent  looked  at  her  with  a  bewildered  expression. 
"Hang  it,  there  must  be  an  end  hanging  out  some- 
where! Begin  at  the  beginning.  When  did  you  go?" 

"At  eight  o'clock  this  morning.  When  I  left  my 
husband's  roof  it  was  to  place  myself  under  the  protec- 
tion of  my  brother.  Wasn't  that  the  proper  thing  to 
do?  You  ought  to  be  pleased — as  pleased  as  one  can 
be  in  such  a  melancholy  situation !  I  hoped  you  might 
have  missed  your  little  sister  and  would  be  glad  to 
have  her  back." 

"Drop  it.  This  is  a  bit  too  serious  for  your  best 
style  of  persiflage.  When  did  you  make  up  your  mind 
to  go?" 

"Last  night:  no,  this  morning,  between  four  and 
five  o'clock." 

"What  did  Evelyn  say  when  you  told  him  you  were 
going?" 

"I  didn't  tell  him :  I  went.  I  shall  write  to  him  to- 
night, but  this  morning  I — I  wasn't  up  to  it:  it'll  be 
a  difficult  letter,  and  I  couldn't  have  got  anything  on 
paper  then  except  undignified  wormlike  writhings. 
For  I  do  feel  like  a  worm,  it's  no  use  pretending  I 
don't !  indeed  I  don't  want  to  pretend  before  you.  I'm 
not  intentionally  brazening  it  out.  I'd  cry  if  I  could, 
but  I  can't."  Dent  cleared  his  throat. 

"Has  he  neglected  you,  Kitty?" 

"Oh!  shamefully.     Works  at  his  old  opera  all  day 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  159 

and  half  the  night.  Scarcely  ever  comes  punctually 
to  meals;  neglects  all  his  social  duties — won't  even 
return  calls  with  me  or  take  me  to  church — " 

"Kitty,  try  not  to  be  more  of  an  idiot  than  you 
need!" 

Kitty  slipped  from  her  brother's  knee  and  stood 
by  the  open  window,  her  small  hands  lightly  clasped 
behind  her  waist,  her  face  in  profile  but  not  concealed. 
What  was  there  to  conceal?  Her  delicate  features 
were  as  impassive  as  those  of  a  nymph  in  a  cameo. 
"It's  no  use,  George:  I  cannot  vivisect  my  own  feel- 
ings even  to  please  you,  or  betray  the  intimate  pri- 
vacies of  our  married  life.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  Eve- 
lyn. I  can  give  you  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it 
in  two  sentences,  and  you  must  be  content  with  them. 
I  won't  stay  with  Evelyn  because  Evelyn  does  not 
love  me.  That's  his  only  fault — if  you  can  call  it  a 
fault — and  there's  no  other  reason." 

"Well,  I  call  that  a  rotten  reason,"  said  Dent. 

He  too  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  bare 
hearth.  From  the  brother  and  sister,  so  fond  of  each 
other,  physically  so  different,  yet  akin  in  that  curious 
family  likeness  which  comes  out  in  expression  and 
movement  and  texture  of  mind  as  well  as  body,  a 
faint  atmosphere  of  hostility  disengaged  itself.  "I 
said  it  was  safe  to  be  Evelyn's  fault,  but  if  that  were 
all  it's  yours.  What  on  earth  does  it  signify  whether 
he's  in  love  with  you  or  not?  I  suppose  you  mind 
more  because  you're  in  love  with  him."  He  paused : 
the  brutality  of  this  speech  struck  him  after  he  had 
uttered  it.  But  facts  are  facts,  and  Dent  never  minced 
his  words.  "Still  that's  all  rubbish.  Being  married 
hasn't  got  anything  to  do  with  being  in  love.  I  never 


160  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

heard  such  rubbish.  Like  a  schoolgirl  with  an  album. 
You  had  better  go  back  by  the  next  train." 

"Not  by  the  next  train,  not  the  next  after  that  nor 
any  other  train." 

"But  you  can't  play  fast  and  loose  with  a  fellow  in 
this  way !  Do  you  tell  me  you  went  off  without  even 
leaving  a  message  for  him?  Why,  he  won't  know 
what's  become  of  you !" 

"Oh !  that  will  be  all  right,"  Kitty  explained  with- 
out perceptible  irony.  "Eraser  will  be  there  to  get  him 
his  meals.  And  he'll  have  my  letter  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. I  doubt  if  by  then  he'll  have  found  out  I'm 
gone." 

"You're  separated?"  Dent  asked  bluntly.  "Whose 
doing  was  that?" 

"Mine.  No :  Evelyn's."  Her  hands  stiffened  as  she 
schooled  herself  to  endurance :  it  was  anguish  to  have 
these  details  torn  out  of  her,  but  in  a  breach  so  serious 
and  permanent,  and  one  in  which  his  own  conduct  was 
involved,  Dent  had  a  right  to  examine  her.  He  did 
so,  ruthlessly.  "No:  he  never  would  have  proposed 
it,"  Kitty  said  in  her  clear,  low  voice.  "But  I  did, 
because  I  saw  it  would  be  a  relief  to  him." 

"And  I  suppose  you  think  it'll  be  a  relief  to  him 
when  he  finds  you've  left  him?" 

"I'm  sure  it  will." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Men 
don't  feel  relieved  when  their  wives  go  off.  No,  my 
girl,  they  don't:  not  even  when  they're  sick  of  them. 
However  badly  a  man  may  hate  his  wife,  he  don't  want 
other  men  to  know  she  hated  him.  What  Eve  will  feel 
is  uncommonly  mortified  and  sore.  How  do  you  sup- 
pose the  gossip  will  go  when  this  prank  of  yours  comes 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  161 

out?  First  of  all,  that  you've  run  off  with  another 
chap.  Then  when  people  hear  where  you  are  the 
women  will  say  Eve's  been  deceiving  you  with  a  chorus 
girl  and  the  men'll  say  he  wasn't  man  enough  to  hold 
you.  Think  he'll  like  that?" 

"No :  but  it  will  be  a  pinprick  compared  with  the 
enormous  relief  of  having  got  rid  of  me.  You  must 
give  me  credit  for  a  certain  amount  of  intelligence 
and — and  affection.  I'm  very  fond  of  him.  Fond 
enough  to  stay  with  him  on  any  terms,  so  far  as  my 
own  preferences  go :  too  fond  to  inflict  myself  on  him 
when  the  tie  between  us  has  become  an  ever-increasing 
constraint  and  gene.  Try  to  imagine  the  torment  of 
having  to  be  eternally  polite  to  your  wife!  It  is  a 
fate  that  no  woman  could  have  the  heart  to  inflict  on  a 
young  man  so  easily  bored  as  Evelyn." 

"But  you  knew  all  along  that  Evelyn  wasn't  quite 
like  other  men :  a  queer  chap — sensitive — shy — 

"Did  you?" 

"Lord,  yes !  haven't  we  knocked  about  together  all 
our  lives?  I  know  Eve  upside  down  and  inside  out." 
He  believed  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  warn  me?" 

"You've  eyes  in  your  head  and  you've  known  him  as 
long  as  I  have." 

"I  can't  remember  now  what  I  knew  or  didn't 
know,"  Kitty  said  with  a  little  despairing  movement 
of  the  hands  that  touched  her  brother  against  his  will. 
"I  knew  it  was  an  experiment,  but  I  never  dreamt 
it  would  fail.  Don't  scold  me  any  more,  I'm  so  tired! 
I'm  sorry  you're  cross  about  it.  Of  course  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  like  it,  but  I  hoped  you  would  let  me 
stay  with  you  till  the  first  storm  had  blown  over.  But 


162  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

since  you  disapprove  so  strongly  I  won't  drag  you 
into  it.  I'll  go  into  rooms  by  myself  for  the  present 
in  some  suitable  resort,  Brighton  or  the  Channel 
Islands.  Only  don't  discontinue  my  allowance,  there's 
a  dear!  because  I  should  make  a  pitiful  governess, 
and  I  can't  take  any  more  money  from  Eve." 

Dent  ignored  these  suggestions,  which  perhaps  were 
not  seriously  meant.  That  there  should  be  a  home 
for  Kitty  at  the  Manor  Farm  so  long  as  he  stayed  in 
it  was  a  law  of  life  and  unaffected  by  fraternal  tiffs. 
He  came  to  her  and  put  his  arm  round  her  waist. 
"Now,  Kitty,  own  up:  this  is  all  rot,  isn't  it?  You 
always  were  obstinate  but  you  were  never  silly,  and 
this  is  too  silly  for  words.  There  is  something  behind, 
isn't  there?  You  can  tell  me:  I'm  too  fond  of  you 
both  not  to  be  able  to  make  allowances.  These  genius 
chaps  with  a  kink  in  their  temperaments — !  You've 
found  him  out  in  a  scrape,  that's  the  top  and  bottom  of 
it,  and  you're  shielding  him  because  you're  afraid  of 
me.  But  I  ain't  given  to  violence !  Least  of  all  with 
Eve,  because,  though  he  maddens  me  when  I'm  not 
there,  face  to  face  with  him  I'm  pretty  nearly  as  weak 
as  you  are.  It's  not  as  though  he  weren't  the  soul  of 
honour !  He's  excitable,  that's  all :  and  some  Jezebel 
has  got  hold  of  him.  You  don't  know,  old  girl,  how 
difficult  it  often  is  for  a  man  to  break  away."  He 
was  tenderly  stroking  Kitty's  hair.  "Makes  you  feels 
such  a  brute,  unkind,  and,  what's  worse,  discourteous. 
And  Eve's  one  of  those  fanciful,  chivalrous  chaps 
.  .  .  You're  my  sister  and  I've  got  to  back  you,  but  I 
couldn't  be  hard  on  him.  I've  done  things  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself,  you  see.  ...  It  isn't  that  girl 
Sophy  by  any  chance,  is  it?" 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  163 

"Sophy?" 

"The  girl  that  lived  in  the  flat  overhead.  I  saw 
her  the  night  I  went  down  to  break  the  news  of  Philip's 
death." 

"You  met  her  in  Evelyn's  rooms?"  Kitty  asked  after 
a  moment.  She  had  never  heard  Sophy's  name  before, 
but  her  mind  worked  swiftly.  "But  she  was  not — was 
she? — living  with  him  then." 

"No,  there  was  nothing  wrong  then;  I  know  that 
because  Eve  gave  me  his  word  for  it.  She  was  with 
him  that  night,  but  not  alone ;  if  you  remember,  I  told 
you  there  were  other  men  with  him.  I  didn't  mention 
her  to  you  because,  if  it  was  straight  between  them, 
that  was  all  that  signified." 

"You  certainly  are  quick  at  jumping  to  conclusions ! 
Why  should  you  suspect  her?" 

Dent  did  not  know.  "I  don't.  She  lingered  in  my 
mind,  that  was  all.  More  her  manner  to  Eve  than  his 
to  her — but  I'll  guarantee  there  was  nothing  in  it. 
All  my  point  is  that  if  it  had  been  her,  or  anyone 
like  her,  you  had  better  by  half  forgive  him.  Facts 
are  facts ;  and  she  was  hot  stuff — the  sort  that  carries 
a  man  off  his  feet.  There's  propinquity  too — 

Kitty  disengaged  herself.  "I  ought  not  to  listen  to 
you.  I've  seen  her,  she  still  has  the  rooms  overhead ; 
Eve  has  never  mentioned  her  name  to  me  and  I  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea  he  knew  her,  and  they  could  have 
met  over  and  over  again  when  I  was  out  of  the  house. 
But  for  all  that  I  am  as  certain  of  Evelyn's  constancy 
as  I  am  of  my  own.  I  am  not  jealous,  George:  oh, 
I  wish  I  were !  I'd  rather  have  a  living  rival  than — 
than  Clair  de  Lunc." 

Dent  laid  his  firm  hands  on  his  sister's  shoulders 


164  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

and  looked  down  into  her  eyes  as  if  he  would  have 
read  her  very  soul.  "Is  this  the  truth,  Kitty?" 

"It  is,  on  my  honour." 

"That  you've  left  your  husband,  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice, without  one  syllable  of  explanation,  for  no  reason 
on  earth  but  that  he's  not  so  fond  of  you  as  you  are  of 
him?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  said  Dent.  "I  thought  you 
had  more  pride.  Better  come  to  lunch  now." 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  an  immense  height  of  blue  air,  clear  as  a  dia- 
mond, radiant  from  brim  to  brim,  a  hawk  hung 
immovable  as  if  tied  by  a  thread.  Under  him  lay 
winter,  with  summer  at  its  foot :  foothills  all  aglow  in 
grass  and  flowers,  and  jewelled  with  steep  brooks  that 
ran  in  one  slant  of  foam  from  glacier  to  valley :  ravines 
of  birch,  and  alder,  and  sweetbriar,  breaking  down  in 
a  cool  emerald  shadow  over  water-gleaming  rocks; 
middle  heights  of  wild  red  and  brown  cliff,  or  velvet 
of  fir  forest;  in  every  patch  of  plain,  a  red-brown 
hamlet  asleep  behind  sun-shutters  under  the  knees  of 
an  apsed  and  fortified  church ;  but  dominant  eternally 
over  all,  remote  as  though  they  belonged  to  another 
planet,  Polar  in  black  and  white  while  the  foothills 
were  Southern  in  green  and  gold,  the  towering  fron- 
tier between  France  and  Spain — the  rampart  of  the 
Pyrenees. 

The  hawk  swooped.  A  thousand  feet  down  he  had 
marked  his  prey,  and  fell  on  it  like  a  stone  from  his 
airy  citadel.  Now  there  was  not  a  speck  in  all  the 
blue  firmament,  through  which  the  eye  could  look 
up  and  up  imagining  Platonic  sphere  beyond  sphere 
and  almost  able  to  trace  them  in  those  miraculous 
gradations  of  azure  which  seemed  to  deepen  rhythmi- 
cally in  layer  after  layer  of  light.  All  the  landscape 
except  the  black  and  white  Pyrenean  chain  reflected 
this  light  and  glowed  with  it,  for  France  was  in  high 
summer  and  the  immense  plain  from  Perpignan  to 

165 


166  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Bordeaux  quivered  under  a  haze  of  heat;  but  in 
mountain  and  foothill  the  air  was  still  fresh,  it  was 
fiery,  saturated  in  sunshine,  yet  had  in  it  a  sparkle 
from  unsunned  snows. 

A  pastoral  country :  here  a  farm  and  there  a  farm, 
linked  only  by  footpaths  vagrant  over  wild  hillsides :  a 
population  strangely  scattered,  each  family  living 
mainly  on  the  produce  of  their  own  plot  of  soil,  and 
turning  wistful  eyes  towards  London  or  America — 
those  lands  paved  with  gold  as  the  French  labourer 
sees  them :  meeting  one  another  after  Mass,  or  on  festal 
evenings  in  the  roughly-paven  courtyard  of  some  up- 
land hamlet,  where  to  the  tune  of  an  accordion,  and  by 
the  light  of  an  oil  lamp  nailed  to  a  plane-tree,  the  boys 
and  girls  danced  mazurka  or  chaloupe;  doors  left  un- 
locked at  night,  and  no  hedges  to  guard  the  purple 
treasure  of  the  vineyards,  or  the  silvery  olive-groves 
twisted  and  bent  in  every  w^rinkled  branch ;  here  men's 
lives  flowed  on  in  patient  simplicity,  very  near  to  the 
earth  out  of  which  they  sprang. 

Lonelier  and  wilder  than  any  neighbouring  dale  was 
the  Val  d'Evol1  into  which  the  hawk  had  dropped. 
Austerity  was  the  mark  of  it,  the  austerity  of  wine- 
dark  rocks  and  thin  pastures  and  grey  heights  that 
had  been  left  to  sleep  in  the  sun  since  the  creation  of 
the  world ;  austerity  and  solitude  and  a  Pagan  harsh- 
ness of  nudity  stripped  to  the  very  bone.  Along  it 

iThe  places  are  real  places,  but  their  relative  situations  are  al- 
tered. All  however  are  within  walking  distance  of  the  Hotel  Sicart 
at  Olette:  prix  de  pension  20  frs.  par  jour,  cuisine  vraiment  supe"- 
rieure.  ...  I  wish  to  put  on  record  that  when  we  reached  this  inn 
without  warning,  at  8.45  p.  m.  on  a  pouring  night  in  May,  before 
the  season  began,  Mademoiselle  served  to  us  within  some  twenty 
minutes  a  dinner  of  soup,  trout,  sweetbreads,  veal  cutlets,  Roque- 
fort cheese,  and  white  wine.  ...  It  is  a  grateful  memory. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  167 

for  the  sixteen  kilometres  from  Ria  there  was  neither 
highway  nor  hamlet,  nothing  but  a  rough  corniche 
cart  track,  which  forsook  the  tiny  towns  beaded  on 
the  railway  to  wind  upward  into  the  hills  in  alternate 
promontory  and  bay.  Soon  the  last  stripe  of  tillage 
faded  out,  and  the  last  noise  of  human  habitation. 
Cliffs  of  rust-red  limestone,  bare  but  for  an  occasional 
slant  of  turf,  towered  on  either  hand  to  a  height 
of  four  or  five  thousand  feet,  breaking  overhead  into 
peaks  dark  with  mountain-bloom,  and  underfoot  into 
pale  crags  washed  by  a  torrent  so  blanched  in  the  foam 
of  a  thousand  rapids  that  it  shone  like  a  vein  of  snow. 
And  midway  over  it,  like  a  hillside  girdle,  the  cart 
track  went  on  ever  higher  and  higher,  opening  out  ever 
fresh  glens  of  violet  valley  and  pale  foreheads  of 
crossed  and  receding  cliff,  till  without  warning  one 
came  round  a  bend  on  the  lateral  ravine  of  Evol — a 
crevice  of  emerald,  a  stream  of  waterfalls,  and  an  inn. 
A  white  building  with  faded  grey  sun-shutters,  the 
cafe  of  Evol  stood  turning  its  back  on  the  mountain 
side,  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  the  torrent  in  the  val- 
ley, and  raised  off  the  road  by  a  flight  of  worn  stone 
steps.  On  either  side  of  the  bay  that  sheltered  it  a 
copse  of  fir  trees  lifted  their  straight,  dark,  and  deli- 
cate tracery  into  the  morning  blue,  then  came  red  rock 
covered  with  a  low  growth  of  cistus  and  the  spires  of 
black  hollies,  and  then,  sloping  in  and  out  of  the 
brook's  precipitous  channel,  a  lawn  of  silken  pasture 
shadowed  by  the  moister  growth  of  hazel  and  ash- 
slender  saplings  ankle-deep  in  tine  turf  thicksown 
with  mountain  pink  and  wild  sweetwilliam  and  hot- 
scented  purple  orchid.  It  was  very  early.  The 
sun  had  not  been  up  for  long,  and  in  every  patch  of 


168  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

shade  the  dew  lay  thick  and  grey.  Only  the  hawk  and 
the  dragonflies  and  the  butterflies  were  awake :  from 
brim  to  brim  there  was  no  other  sign  of  life  to  be  seen, 
nor  so  much  as  a  shepherd's  hut  to  send  up  its  waif  of 
smoke  into  the  stainless  air. 

At  length  the  inn  door  opened  and  a  young  man, 
barefoot  in  white  flannel  trousers  and  a  white  shirt, 
came  out  on  the  flagged  terrasse  at  the  top  of  the 
stone  stair.  He  stood  for  a  minute  sunning  himself 
in  sparkle  and  glow,  while  gold  rays,  shooting  almost 
level  over  the  Mediterranean  ranges,  painted  the 
shadow  of  a  vine  trellis  on  the  bare  arm  and  hand 
thrown  up  to  shield  his  eyes,  then  stepping  delicately 
for  fear  of  gorse  or  thorns  took  a  path  which  led 
behind  the  inn  and  through  the  cistus  bushes.  Where 
it  began  to  be  fledged  with  living  stone  he  left  it  for 
the  wet  turf,  striking  straight  across  to  the  brook  at 
a  spot  where  it  collected  and  deepened  into  a  pool; 
and  there,  after  one  cursory  glance  round  him  to  make 
sure  that  mountains,  valley,  and  tributary  ravine  were 
as  empty  as  ever,  flung  off  his  clothes  and  plunged  in. 

Exquisite  the  bubbling  chill  of  the  water,  fresh  from 
unsunned  springs!  It  was  a  bath  for  a  nymph:  a 
gush  of  crystal  falling  into  a  bowl  of  marble,  and 
coiled  there  in  eddying  amber  between  shade  and  sun, 
before  spilling  itself  again  over  a  marble  lip  in  a  film 
of  glass  so  clear  as  to  be  almost  invisible  in  its  flow. 
From  the  worn  stones  all  round  delicate  ferns  were 
growing,  and  the  slender  tall  shaft  of  an  ash-tree.  It 
was  not  wide  enough  to  swim  in,  but  when  Evelyn 
stood  upright  in  it  the  ripples  lapped  over  his  chest, 
while  against  his  thigh  a  spire  of  waterweed  swayed 
to  and  fro,  green  as  moss  and  almost  as  impalpable 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  169 

as  a  cloud.  An  immense  dragonfly,  more  brilliant 
than  a  lady's  fan,  alit  on  a  plumy  stem  of  grass  to 
watch  his  toilet.  Near  by  in  a  miniature  tract  of 
marsh  grew  a  plantation  of  dwarf  reeds,  every  dark 
spear  carrying  as  if  impaled  on  it  a  motionless  insect 
no  bigger  than  a  pea  and  mailed  in  a  coat  of  turquoise. 
Lizards,  running  on  their  tiny  brown  hands,  flickered 
under  stones  on  the  brink  when  his  shadow  crossed 
them,  and  in  the  densest  foliage  of  the  ash-tree  a  ci- 
cada, with  red-brown  beetle's  body  and  glassy  wings, 
accompanied  him  with  its  monotonous  shrill  stridula- 
tion,  hz-z-z,  hz-z-z,  vibrating  in  a  spot  of  sunshine 
among  the  grey,  pointed  leaves. 

Washed  clean  in  the  living  whirl  of  the  water,  he 
flung  himself  on  the  turf  to  dry.  The  sun  was  hot 
already :  soon  the  moisture  that  covered  his  body  con- 
tracted into  separate  beads :  and  soon  these  too  were 
gone,  dried  up,  exhaled  into  the  blue  abyss  of  air. 
Evelyn  rolled  over  into  the  shadow  and  lay  face  down- 
ward, sensuously  aware  of  the  cool  contact  of  scores 
of  tiny  green  blades,  each  suave  as  crumpled  silk  and 
hung  with  its  own  chill  drop ;  he  shivered  from  head  to 
foot,  but  he  was  not  cold  under  his  skin :  as  soon  as 
he  began  to  be  so  he  rolled  back  into  the  sun  and 
stretched  out  his  limbs  under  it,  enjoying  the  mere  sen- 
sation of  nakedness  in  that  vast  and  burning  solitude, 
where  no  one  ever  came  unless  it  were  now  and  again 
a  shepherd  or  goatherd,  heralded  far  off  by  the  tink- 
ling of  bells.  "Off,  ye  lendings,"  cried  Lear  when 
he  went  out  heartbroken  into  the  storm,  and  it  was 
the  same  instinct  that  now  made  Evelyn  court  Nature 
like  a  lover,  because  after  being  forced  into  too  close 
and  feverish  contact  with  other  lives  it  soothed  him  to 


170  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

lie  on  the  breast  of  a  chastity  inviolate  and  inviolable, 
savagely  and  coldly  pure. 

He  dressed  at  length  and  returned  to  the  inn  for 
breakfast,  feeling  very  hungry — he  who  in  Chelsea  had 
had  to  be  coaxed  to  every  meal.  He  flung  the  inn 
door  wide  open,  flung  open  the  shutters  (unlike  the 
Pyrenean  native,  Evelyn  was  not  afraid  of  the  sun), 
flung  open  the  doors  through  parlour  and  kitchen 
so  that  the  breath  of  the  mountains  blew  in  and  out 
of  the  house.  There  was  no  one  in  it  but  himself. 
Before  catching  his  eve  it  had  stood  for  years  deco- 
rated with  a  fading ""PROPRIETE  A  VENDRE" 
notice :  an  estaminet  to  which  custom  never  came  be- 
cause the  building  of  another  road  had  diverted  all 
traffic  except  an  occasional  pack-mule.  Monsieur 
Henri  Blanc  was  only  too  glad  to  remove  with  his 
family  to  Olette  and  be  rid  of  a  bad  bargain.  No  one 
troubled  Evelyn ;  though  he  kept  on  his  shelves  a  few 
litres  of  the  smooth  wine  of  the  country,  a  flagon 
of  cognac,  a  flagon  of  anisette,  a  flagon  of  Byrrh,  and 
some  sweet  sirops,  in  case  a  traveller  came  his  way. 

There  were  two  living  rooms  below  and  two  bed- 
rooms above,  airy  and  spacious  with  their  wavy 
wooden  floors  and  their  pale  distemper,  in  spite  of 
small  windows  deepset  in  thick  walls,  and  deep  alcoves 
where  one  was  intended  to  sleep  behind  curtains  out  of 
the  way  of  a  draught.  The  groundfloor  furniture, 
bought  in  Perpignan  or  taken  over  with  the  house, 
consisted  mainly  of  wooden  chairs  and  tables  and  a 
hanging  mahogany  clock  with  an  inlaid  dial.  The 
.kitchen  fireplace  was  a  wide  brick  hearth  under  an 
.open  chimney,  where  Madame  Blanc  had  dressed 
savoury  meat  in  a  saucepan  hung  gipsy-fashion  from 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  171 

an  iron  tripod  over  a  handful  of  sticks;  the  parlour 
possessed  one  of  those  immense  foreign  stoves  which 
burn  anything  and  everything  from  charcoal  to  rabbit 
skins.  Evelyn  was  equally  incapable  of  coping  with 
either  of  them.  He  had  written  for  a  Primus  stove 
from  England  and  cooked  on  that.  He  had  not  much 
to  cook,  in  point  of  fact :  once  a  week  a  cart  from  Ria 
came  up  to  bring  him  provisions  from  Ria's  one  and 
only  shop,  and  between  whiles  he  made  do  with  Mad- 
ame Blanc's  vegetable  garden,  and  eggs  and  milk  from 
a  farm  two  miles  away. 

Coming  in  glowing  from  head  to  foot  and  famished 
from  his  bath,  Evelyn  could  not  sit  down  to  breakfast 
directly.  He  had  to  light  the  Primus  first,  husband- 
ing his  matches  because  he  had  forgotten  to  put  any 
down  in  his  last  Ria  order,  and  while  a  kettle  boiled 
on  one  extension,  and  a  potful  of  eggs  on  the  other, 
he  turned  to  and  swept  out  the  parlour  with  a  wet 
cloth  tied  over  a  mop.  By  the  time  this  job  was  done 
his  coffee  was  ready,  and  he  sat  on  the  doorstep  to 
drink  it,  and  to  wolf  down  four  eggs  and  half  a  loaf 
of  dark  warbread  and  a  pat  of  butter  as  pure  as  thick 
cream ;  there  should  have  been  jam,  but  that  too  had 
been  forgotten.  There  were  still  gaps  in  Evelyn's 
economy,  though  not  so  many  as  a  twelvemonth  ago ; 
painful  experience  had  taught  him  not  to  forget  par- 
affin, bread,  or  meat,  nor  yet  to  fill  the  Primus  brim- 
ful of  oil  and  leave  the  pumprod  sticking  out,  an  in- 
discretion which  had  more  than  once  produced  a  mag- 
nificent blaze  and  stunk  the  house  out  and  all  but 
burnt  it  down. 

And  even  after  breakfast  he  had  to  make  his  bed 
and  tidy  his  room,  fetch  water  from  the  stream  and 


172  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

wash  up  and  shave  himself,  dig  and  peel  potatoes  and 
set  them  on  to  boil,  and  decide  between  the  rival 
charms  of  baked  rice  and  semolina;  most  men  would 
have  lunched  off  cold  beef  and  cheese,  but  Evelyn 
had  an  intemperate  passion  for  milk  puddings,  and 
baked  himself  a  large  one  three  or  four  times  a  week. 
He  could  eat  rice-milk  nearly  raw  faute  de  mieux, 
when,  as  occasionally  happened,  the  Primus,  owing 
to  an  unfortunate  misunderstanding,  sulked  and  went 
on  strike.  Take  it  by  and  large  there  was  plenty 
to  do,  even  on  a  theory  of  existence  which  cooked 
everything  in  an  earthenware  casserole  till  it  broke 
and  then  bought  a  new  one  (no  power  on  earth  would 
have  induced  Evelyn  to  handle  an  iron  pot) ;  for  one 
must  eat,  and  sweep,  and  wash  up,  and  once  a  week 
scrub  the  floor.  And  that,  Evelyn  reflected,  is  where 
civilised  man  labours  under  a  disadvantage.  Your 
primitive  savage  would  not  have  had  to  wait  till  ten 
o'clock  before  addressing  himself  to  Evelyn's  one 
reckless  imported  luxury,  a  concert  grand  piano  that 
had  come  at  untold  expense  by  rail  and  motor  lorry 
all  the  way  from  Toulouse ;  on  the  other  hand  the  poor 
Indian,  when  at  length  free  to  sit  down  before  it, 
would  not  have  been  literally  trembling  with  delight 
as  Evelyn  was,  his  eyes  lit  with  desire,  his  fingers 
caressing  the  keys  as  a  man  caresses  his  mistress. 

The  day  wore  on.  Towards  noon  the  sun  drew  up 
out  of  the  melting  snows  a  weft  of  cloud,  an  ethereal 
mosaic  patterned  into  innumerable  shell-shaped  rip- 
plings,  which  instead  of  dimming  his  glory  were  first 
transfigured  by  it  into  the  prismatic  brilliance  of  a 
halo  as  bright  as  a  rainbow,  and  afterwards  absorbed 
without  leaving  any  stain.  Later,  at  sunset,  they  came 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  173 

again  for  an  hour,  or  the  low  light  revealed  their  un- 
suspected and  swiftly  fading  presence:  mists  flying 
in  a  garland  of  vermilion,  fairy  girls  with  twisted 
petticoats  and  arms  lifted  sideways  in  a  long  dance 
round  the  west,  while  down  the  very  middle  of  the  sky 
the  breast-plume  of  an  osprey,  with  rosy  spine  and 
fringe  of  fire,  lay  floating  over  gentian-blue,  sea-blue, 
amethyst,  and  gold.  .  .  .  These  were  the  events  of 
Evelyn's  day. 

It  was  twilight  when  he  shut  the  piano.  Twilight 
as  one  reckoned  twilight  at  that  height  and  in  those 
latitudes,  ten  o'clock  by  Evelyn's  watch  but  not  yet 
dark,  the  hollow  of  the  west  still  green  from  sunset, 
the  stars  twinkling  and  sparkling  with  a  brilliancy 
which  in  England  would  have  threatened  frost.  He 
closed  the  shutters,  closed  the  window,  lit  a  candle, 
and  blew  out  his  lamp ;  then  before  going  to  bed  lin- 
gered in  his  open  doorway,  at  the  top  of  the  high  per- 
ron, looking  up  into  the  immense,  ray-strewn,  wind- 
less vault  of  a  Pyrenean  night. 

The  breath  of  it  was  clear  and  sparkling,  yet  so 
mild  that  in  his  shirt  and  trousers  Evelyn  was  quite 
warm.  He  rarely  wore  anything  more  unless  he 
went  down  to  Ria,  when  he  flung  on  a  blazer  and  im- 
patiently put  his  feet  into  socks  and  London  boots. 
Now,  standing  on  bare  stone,  he  was  barefoot,  and 
liked  the  crisping  chill  of  it.  In  all  his  life  Evelyn 
had  never  experienced  such  a  glow  of  health  as  had 
come  over  him  in  his  mountain  eyrie.  All  the  coun- 
tryside for  ten  miles  round  knew  that  a  mad  English- 
man had  bought  the  inn  of  6vol  and  was  alone  in 
it  day  and  night,  far  out  of  earshot  of  his  nearest 


174  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

neighbour,  but  Evelyn  never  locked  his  door.  Nor  had 
he  a  revolver;  nor  a  stick  even,  except  one  cut  with 
his  own  pocket-knife  from  a  Ria  holly.  He  slept  every 
evening- from  half  past  ten  till  five,  deeply,  dreamlessly, 
drenched  in  repose :  such  sleep  as  he  had  not  enjoyed 
since  his  childhood. 

Lighting  a  cigarette,  he  sat  down  on  the  doorstep 
to  listen  to  the  noises  of  the  night,  so  much  louder  and 
more  distinct  than  the  same  noises  are  by  day.  All 
sounds  were  either  a  pleasure  to  him  or  a  pain,  from 
the  metallically  orchestral  whirr  of  a  dynamo  to  the 
acid  whine  of  a  gnat ;  and  all  to-night  were  pleasure. 
In  a  continuous  weaving  of  harmony  he  could  distin- 
guish several  different  streams;  the  laughing  chatter 
of  the  brook  behind  him,  with  one  deep  sob  in  it  where 
it  formed  his  bathing  pool:  the  roar  of  the  glacier 
torrent  in  the  valley  bottom :  the  slender  and  evanes- 
cent murmur  of  a  distant  cascade :  the  lisp  and  chuckle 
of  runnels  buried  out  of  sight  under  a  coverture  of 
grass.  Then  intermittent  came  the  hunting  cry  of 
an  owl  flying  among  the  crags  far  off  under  his  feet, 
and  the  chirp,  chirp,  chirp  of  a  cricket  on  the  Blancs' 
cold  hearth,  and  the  wire-twanged  squeak  of  a  bat, 
and  the  rattle  of  leathern  wings  as  it  flickered  off 
again,  startled  to  come  unexpectedly  on  this  member 
of  the  enemy  race;  and  presently  a  rustling  among 
the  cistus  bushes  hard  by — but  what  that  was  he  could 
not  tell,  there  are  so  many  small  and  shy  animals 
that  go  about  their  affairs  quietly  after  dark.  .  .  . 

And  after  that,  when  he  had  just  risen  to  return 
to  the  house,  a  different  sound  which  was  neither 
brook,  nor  owl,  nor  field-rat,  nor  any  other  noise  of 
animal  life  or  nature.  Evelyn  stiffened  and  stood  to 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  175 

attention,  straining  his  ears,  which  were  naturally 
very  keen.  It  came  again — apparently  from  a  distant 
winding  of  the  Ria  track.  Evelyn  relit  the  lamp  and 
came  out  holding  it  above  his  head.  "Hoik !"  he  called, 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  Instantly  the  cry 
was  repeated,  and  now  very  much  more  clearly,  as 
if  the  wayfarer  had  doubled  the  last  bluff:  soon  foot- 
steps became  audible,  a  long  ringing  stride,  not  to 
be  mistaken  for  the  free,  flat,  soundless  tread  of  a 
peasant's  espadrilles.  Evelyn  continued  to  stand 
holding  up  the  lamp,  whose  light  fell  over  his  head  and 
lifted  arm.  He  was  blinded  by  it  and  could  see  noth- 
ing, not  even  when  the  stranger  came  into  the  direct 
circle  of  its  rays.  "You've  missed  your  way?"  he  said 
in  his  clear,  pure,  idiomatic  French,  the  language  of 
Paris  and  the  accent  of  a  musician.  "It's  a  lonely 
road,  and  you  might  easily  have  had  to  sleep  under 
the  stars.  But  fortunately  I  can  give  you  a  shake- 
down for  the  night — 

The  stranger  was  as  much  blinded  as  Evelyn. 

"Bon  soir.  Je  ne  parle  pas  beaucoup  f  ran^ais.  Si 
ceci  est  iDvol,  voulez-vous  dire  le  monsieur  anglais 
qui  vive— qui  vit  iciqueje  suis  ici,  s'il  vous  plait?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

EVELYN  gave  an  irrepressible  start. 
"George?" 
"Hullo,  Eve!  is  that  you?" 

"Is  my  wife  with  you?" 

"No,  I  left  her  at  Perpignan." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?"  said  Evelyn  smiling. 
"Well,  come  in,  come  in !  since  you've  run  me  to  earth, 
I  can  but  make  you  free  of  my  burrow.  Pity  you 
never  sent  word  you  were  coming  or  I'd  have  got  in  a 
beefsteak — Primus  and  I  shine  at  a  beefsteak." 

He  held  open  the  door  while  Dent  mounted  the 
steps.  "Are  you  alone  here?"  Dent  asked  frowning, 
his  observant  eye  roving  round  the  parlour  and  taking 
note  of  its  bare  simplicity.  "Very  dangerous.  Any- 
body could  break  down  that  door.  A  couple  of 
determined  men  could  rob  and  murder  you  and  be  over 
the  frontier  into  Spain  before  the  crime  was  dis- 
covered." 

"You  have  such  a  rich  inventive  faculty,"  Evelyn 
remarked,  on  one  knee  before  the  Primus,  which  he 
was  trying  to  light,  "that  you  ought  to  earn  your 
fortune  by  writing  dime  novels.  If  I  sat  down  and 
thought  for  a  fortnight  these  ideas  would  never  come 
into  my  head,  whereas  your  fertile  fancy  produces  a 
whole  crop  of  them  at  five  minutes'  notice.  Oh! 
Blow!"  In  his  impatience  he  had  lit  the  stove  too 
soon,  and  a  gush  of  yellow  flame  shot  up,  volleying 
smoke,  in  a  hopeful  effort  to  singe  his  hair.  "I  always 

176 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  177 

forget  how  long  you  have  to  go  on  saying  your  prayers 
to  this  beastly  thing  before  you  begin  to  pump.  Do 
you  know  anything  about  a  Primus? — You  do? — The 
Lord  be  praised !  Now  I  really  do  begin  to  feel  glad 
to  see  you.  Go  on  and  contend  with  it,  my  blue-eyed 
lad,  while  I  lay  the  table." 

Dent  set  himself  to  soothe  the  little  stove's  ruffled 
feelings  while  Evelyn  went  about  his  domestic  duties. 
Dent  was  tired  from  a  long  railway  journey  in  great 
heat  and  a  long  uphill  walk  from  Ria  where  he  had 
left  the  train.  Ten  minutes  ago  he  had  been  hating 
Kitty's  husband  from  collar  to  shoelace,  but  from  the 
first  moment  of  meeting  Evelyn  his  anger  had  been 
miraculously  dissipated,  as  if  charmed  away  by  the 
mere  renewal  of  contact  with  his  old  friend.  How 
well  the  fellow  looked,  confound  him!  How  alert 
and  active!  there  were  a  spring  in  his  step  and  an 
elasticity  in  his  movements  which  he  had  not  possessed 
in  London.  He  had  no  business  to  be  cheerful,  and 
yet  it  was  pleasant  to  find  him  looking  so  well; 
pleasant  also  to  eat  the  excellent  supper  that  Evelyn 
set  on  the  table,  fried  ham  and  eggs  and  Roquefort 
cheese  washed  down  with  the  white  wine  of  Ronciaulx 
and  crowned  with  a  Benedictine;  and  pleasant  after- 
wards to  sit  on  the  doorstep  and  light  a  pipe,  and  listen 
like  Evelyn  to  the  mysterious  and  peaceful  -murmurs 
of  the  night. 

But  now  came  a  moment  which  was  not  so  pleasant, 
and  which  perhaps  Evelyn  too  would  have  been  glad 
to  defer.  He  lingered  long  over  the  washing  up  of 
Dent's  plate  and  tumbler  and  knife  and  fork.  But 
he  had  to  come  out  at  length  and  sit  down  l»y  his 
brother-in-law,  leaving  the  door  open  behind  them 


178  CLAIE  DE  LUNB 

and  no  light  but  a  candle  burning  in  the  white  and 
brown  parlour.  There  was  no  green  glow  of  sunset 
now.  Unshadowed  stars  triumphed  over  a  deepening 
hush,  through  which  it  seemed  one  could  almost  hear 
the  very  dew  distilling  on  grass  blade  and  flower  petal. 
An  immense  moth  came  sailing  by  on  broad  wings 
freakishly  patterned  in  scarlet  and  black  and  grey, 
their  thick  down  tipped  with  iridescence  as  it  fluttered 
in  the  ray  from  Evelyn's  door.  Evelyn  fanned  it  away 
with  his  handkerchief,  a  characteristic  action;  a  law 
of  the  universe  to  which  in  thirty  years  he  had  not 
grown  resigned  was  Nature's  careless  and  cruel  waste 
of  life,  and  the  singed  bodies  of  flies  would  distract 
him  even  from  Clair  de  Lune.  When  the  wanderer 
fluttered  back  he  went  in  and  blew  out  the  candle. 
Now  all  was  dark  but  for  the  dim  glow  of  Dent's  pipe. 
Evelyn  returned  to  his  seat  on  the  doorstep.  Silently, 
without  turning  his  head,  Dent  flung  an  arm  over 
Evelyn's  shoulders. 

"It  isn't  war  then?" 

"No,"  said  Dent  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "no.  I  never 
can  keep  it  up  when  I  see  you,  Eve."  He  straightened 
himself,  sitting  easily  with  knees  apart  and  his  free 
hand  dropped  between  them.  "But  I  haven't  felt  very 
warm  towards  you  these  thirteen  months  since  you 
disappeared.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self? you  haven't  been  in  this  outlandish  pothouse  all 
the  time?" 

"Practically.     I've  lived  here  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"What,  all  through  the  winter?" 

"All  through  the  snows ;  and  with  no  hot  water  laid 
on,  think  o'  that  now !  Primus  and  I  and  a  charcoal 
brazier  did  the  trick  between  us." 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  179 

Calling  to  mind  the  redhot  winter  temperature  of 
Evelyn's  rooms  in  Chelsea,  Dent  was  confounded. 
"But  why?  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  all  day?" 

"Work  at  Clair  de  Lune.  I've  re-written  three- 
quarters  of  it  since  I  came  out  here.  I  sent  off  a 
batch  of  it  to  Millerand  a  fortnight  ago.  He  talks  of 
producing  it  next  season  in  Paris  if  the  rest  of  it  is 
up  to  sample.  And  it  will  be.  It's  good  work,"  said 
Evelyn  with  simplicity.  "Far  and  away  the  best 
thing  I've  ever  done.  Meredith  said  a  lot  of  it  was 
weak  and  imitative,  when  he  tried  it  over  in  town, 
and  so  it  wras,  and  no  wonder;  over  there  one  can't 
hear  oneself  think.  But  it's  all  different  now — 
fresher — stronger.  See  there."  He  pointed  with  his 
hand  to  the  Pyrenean  rampart  that  loomed  up,  high 
above  the  high  cliffs  opposite,  obliterating  the  horizon 
stars.  Over  one  black  eastern  tower,  too  steep  for 
snow,  too  cold  for  vegetation,  every  cavern  and 
precipice  standing  out  on  it  darkly  clear  as  if  etched 
on  steel,  a  profound  glow  was  beginning  to  be  dif- 
fused. "Moonrise,"  said  Evelyn. 

"The  moon  .  .  .  peak" 

"  'The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak.* " 
She  did  so ;  a  keen  spark  like  a  fire  on  the  rocky  rim. 
"I've  watched  that  night  after  night,  and  I've  tried  to 
put  some  of  the  magic  of  it  into  my  tunes,  and  I've 
partly  succeeded.  Of  course  not  wholly,  no  one  but 
God  the  Father  ever  looked  on  the  work  of  His  hands 
and  saw  that  it  was  all  good,  but  Clair  de  Lune  is  as 
good  as  I  can  make  it,  now  or  ever;  it'll  be  putting  its 
magic  over  people  long  after  I'm  in  my  grave." 


180  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

And  this  was  the  fretful  genius  who  had  winced 
and  sulked  under  Meredith's  criticism?  Though 
Dent  had  not  been  present  at  the  scene,  it  had  been 
described  for  him  by  Kitty's  lively  pen.  What  a 
change !  Evelyn  was  not  shy  now  nor  irritable  either ; 
in  his  mountain  eyrie  he  seemed  to  have  acquired  the 
more  mature  and  serene  temper  of  the  artist  whose 
final  standard  is  "his  own  solitary  reperception  and 
ratification  of  what  is  fine."  Dent  felt  the  change 
though  he  could  not  have  defined  it. 

"You're  a  strange  fellow,  Eve." 

"Now  tell  me  how  you  found  me." 

"I  didn't.     Meredith  found  you." 

"Edmund  Meredith?  But  I  haven't  written  to  him 
since  I  left  England !" 

"No,  but  he  got  your  address  out  of  that  chap  Miller- 
and  you  were  talking  about  just  now.  He  runs  some 
sort  of  musical  show  in  Paris,  doesn't  he?"  Evelyn 
assented  smiling.  "Well,  Meredith  was  over  in  Paris 
a  few  days  ago,  and  he  wrote  and  told  me  that  he  had 
heard  a  thing  by  an  anonymous  composer  which  he 
was  absolutely  certain  was  yours,  and  recently 
written ;  it  seems  he  recognised  the  style,  or  the  tunes : 
anyhow  it  was  this  chap's  band  that  played  it,  and 
Meredith  suggested  that  he  would  be  able  to  give 
information  if  I  authorised  him  to  bring  pressure  to 
bear." 

"So  he  got  my  address  from  Millerand,  did  he? 
And  that  is  even  more  singular  because  Millerand 
never  had  it.  Not  a  soul  had  it  till  this  April,  when 
I  had  to  get  in  touch  with  him  for  Glair  de  Lune;  and 
even  then  our  business  was  all  done  through  a  third 
party,  an  agent  in  town  whose  discretion  I  could  trust, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  181 

or  thought  I  could.  What?  Oh!  no,  not  Dimsdale 
Smith — I  knew  Kitty  could  wind  him  round  her  finger. 
Someone  as  close  as  wax  and  right  out  of  the  track 
of  enquiry — or  so  I  thought;  but  no  doubt  Meredith 
has  his  own  means  of  getting  information."  Evelyn's 
tone  was  dry.  "So  it  was  my  Suite  Pyr6n6enne  that 
gave  me  away?  I  knew  there  was  danger  in  it,  but 
Millerand  was  keen  on  producing  it,  and  Paris  seemed 
pretty  safe  as  you  and  Kitty  never  go  abroad.  I 
forgot  that  Meredith  was  intimate  with  Millerand. 
For  that  matter  I  forgot  the  existence  of  Meredith. 
Where  did  you  run  across  him?  Kitty  knew  him  but 
you  never  did." 

"Haven't  you  heard  that  it  was  he  who  rented 
Temple  Evelyn?" 

"Meredith  rented  Temple  Evelyn?  Meredith  did?" 
"Aren't  you  in  touch  with  anyone  in  England?" 
"Remotely.  I  get  letters  from  my  lawyer  now  and 
again.  They  lie  at  Perpignan,  poste  restante,  till  I 
call  for  them.  I  had  heard  that  a  tenant  had  turned 
up,  but  wished  to  withhold  his  name.  So  long  as  he 
paid  in  advance  it  was  all  one  to  me  so  I  asked  no 
questions.  Was  it  really  Meredith?  What  an  extra- 
ordinary thing  for  him  to  do!  Of  course  Hanmer's 
knew  who  it  was.  'Had  a  banker's  reference  and  \\ crc 
prepared  to  guarantee  him — 'a  client  of  unexception- 
able standing  but  who  preferred  to  remain  anony- 
mous', that's  what  they  wrote.  I  recollect  now  that 
Meredith  was  on  the  look  out  for  a  place  in  the 
country,  but  it  never  crossed  my  mind  that  he  was  the 
unexceptionable  gentleman."  Evelyn's  face  was  dark 
and  vexed,  and  Dent  wondered  why  his  voice  stiffened 
when  he  pronounced  Meredith's  name.  But  the  cloud 


182  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

lifted,  or  he  flung  it  off.  "And  he  came  to  live  there? 
I  dare  say  then  you've  seen  a  good  deal  of  him." 

"Pretty  fair,"  said  Dent.  Evelyn  watched  him 
keenly,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  confusion  or  second 
thought  in  his  manner.  "Never  mind  about  Meredith 
now."  Dent  waited  to  knock  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe.  "You  and  I  must  come  to  an  understanding, 
Eve." 

"Muy  bien.  Ask  what  you  will  and  don't  be  afraid 
of  hurting  my  feelings ;  there's  no  spot  so  insensitive 
as  an  old  scar." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Dent  slowly,  "if 
you  rip  it  open.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  I  don't 
even  know  who  was  to  blame.  Unless  Kitty  had 
grounds  of  complaint  that  she's  never  disclosed  to 
me  .  .  ."  Again  he  waited.  But  Evelyn  remained 
silent,  a  profile  impenetrable  in  starlight  under  a  dark 
trellising  of  vine.  "Which  isn't  likely:  in  fact  she 
gave  me  her  word  for  your  innocence,  and  I've  never 
known  Kitty  tell  a  lie  in  her  life.  If  you  were 
innocent  she  had  no  right  to  leave  you." 

"Hear,  hear !  and  I  hope  you  told  her  so." 

Dent  resumed,  patient,  unmoved  by  Evelyn's  levity. 
"I  was  cross  enough  when  she  turned  up  at  the  Manor 
Farm.  But  women  are  fanciful;  and  Kitty  was  a 
young  wife,  and  there  are  elements  of  trouble  in  most 
marriages.  I  made  sure  you  and  she  would  come 
together  again  after  a  bit.  When  I  went  to  Chelsea 
and  found  you  gone,  you  could  have  knocked  me  down 
with  a  feather." 

"What  a  bold  and  original  metaphor!  But  so  all 
your  metaphors  are,  old  George.  After  you  with  that 
match — I  forgot  to  order  any  in  my  last  Ria  cargo, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  183 

and  there's  only  half  a  box  to  last  till  Saturday. 
Primus  lives  on  matches.  Phew!  Bother  these 
French  rockets,  the  sulphur's  gone  up  my  nose."  He 
sneezed,  petulantly.  "Well,  go  on.  What  did  you 
do?" 

"Rounded  up  your  bank:  but  they  refused,  quite 
properly,  to  pass  on  a  client's  address.  Then  I  tried 
the  agents  who  were  handling  Temple  Evelyn,  but  I 
soon  found  that  door  was  locked.  You  covered  your 
tracks  well." 

"A  private  enquiry  agent  would  have  run  me  down 
in  a  jiffy." 

"Yes,  my  boy,  but  Kitty  blocked  that  move.  I  had 
no  scruples,  don't  you  think  it,  but  she  was  as  stubborn 
as  Carter's  mule." 

"By  the  by,  there  was  no  child,  I  suppose?" 

"Whose  child?" 

Evelyn  arched  his  eyebrows.     "Mine!" 

"Oh ! — No,"  said  Dent  disconcerted :  "was  there  any 
likelihood?  I  hadn't  heard—" 

"Not  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Evelyn  with  his  slow, 
pleasant  laugh.  "But  these  things  do  happen.  What 
an  old  bachelor  you  are,  George !  or  should  I  say  an 
old  maid?  Well,  well,  I  won't  pretend  I  was  glad 
when  you  ran  me  down."  He  smiled  into  Dent's  eyes. 
"But  I  am  uncommonly  pleased  to  see  you  all  the  same. 
Once  or  twice  lately  I've  had  a  queer  sensation  which 
I  think  must  be  what  they  call  feeling  lonely ;  I  never 
had  it  before,  but  it  was  quite  painful  while  it  lasted. 
So  I  shan't  vanish  again.  Here  I  am,  at  your  servi<r, 
for  Little  Johnny's  catechism.  And  to  begin :  What 
is  your  name?  'Evelyn  Charles  Evelyn/  Were  you 
faithful  to  your  wife? — I  know  you  must  want  to  ask 


184  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

me  this :  you  seem  uncertain  whether  Kitty  might  not 
lie  to  shelter  me,  but  I  know  you  won't  believe  I  should 
lie  to  shelter  myself. — 'Yes,  I  was  faithful.'  In  all 
our  married  life  I  haven't  wronged  Kitty  in  act  or 
word :  I  never  had  even  a  thought  that  was  untrue  to 
her.  You  accept  Little  Johnny's  assurance?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dent  on  a  dropped  breath  and  tightening 
his  grip  on  Evelyn's  shoulder. 

"Now  shall  I  describe  the  crisis  as  Little  Johnny 
saw  it?  Deuced  piquant  it  was;  if  it  had  happened 
to  any  other  man  I  should  have  been  amused.  My 
wife  kissed  me  good  night  at  five  one  morning  and  fled 
at  eight.  Nothing  could  have  happened  in  the  interim 
and  I  had  no  warning.  Her  letter,  which  I  didn't  get 
till  the  day  after — and,  by  the  by,  thanks  for  your 
wire :  it  spared  me  twenty-four  hours  of  anxiety — her 
letter  when  it  came  wasn't  illuminating.  You  know 
what  was  in  it?" 

"No:  she  never  let  me  see.it." 

"I  burnt  it  on  the  spot,  but  I  can  give  you  the 
substance  of  it  because  it  wasn't  long  and  it  was 
damned  easy  to  remember.  She  wrote :  <I  have  left  you. 
I  have  gone  home  to  George  and  I  am  not  coming 
back.  There  is  no  law  that  can  make  me,  or  if  there 
were  I  had  rather  shoot  myself.  I  hope  you  will  be 
happy.  I  know  you  will  be  glad/  "  He  did  not  add 
that  on  her  dressing  table  he  had  found  the  case  con- 
taining her  sapphires  and  an  even  more  laconic 
message:  "Please  sell  these  and  pay  Mr.  Meredith. 
They  aren't  your  gift  to  me,  if  they  weren't  yours  to 
give." 

"Kitty  wrote  like  that  to  you?" 

"Definitive,  wasn't  it?" 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  185 

"Was  she  out  of  her  senses?" 

"It  was  lucid  enough,"  said  Evelyn  drily.  "Lucid 
and  uncompromising.  When  I  read  it,  England 
didn't  seem  wide  enough  to  hold  the  two  of  us.  To 
be  frank,  that  cinema-touch  about  the  law  put  me 
off — it  wasn't  worthy  of  Kitty.  If  there  is  one 
principle  on  earth  that  I  stand  for,  it's  a  deep  and 
unswerving  regard  for  personal  freedom.  Granting 
that  I  was  insupportable,  she  needn't  have  run:  she 
had  nothing  to  fear  from  me." 

"That  also  I  accept." 

"Mind,  I  won't  have  Kitty  rowed.  Marriage  isn't 
a  unison.  It's  a  duet,  and  a  stiff  one ;  and  Kitty  tried 
her  hardest  to  match  her  darling  little  pipe  to  mine. 
It  wasn't  her  fault  if  we  were  out  of  tune  from  the 
beginning.  So  there  must  be  no  fraternising  with  the 
enemy,  old  man ;  she's  your  sister,  and  right  or  wrong 
you'll  have  to  stand  by  her.  For  I  must  have  made 
her  suffer,  and  cruelly — I  must  have  been  mercilessly 
blind.  I  feel  this  so  strongly  that  if  you  really  were 
my  brother  instead  of  hers,  which  somehow  I  often  feel 
as  if  you  were,  I  shouldn't  have  tried  to  justify 
myself — I  should  have  let  judgment  go  against  me  by 
default." 

"No  fear,"  said  Dent,  perfectly  understanding  his 
friend's  attitude.  "I'll  back  her  up  through  thick  and 
thin.  But  it  was  a  rotten  letter." 

He  sat  silent  awhile,  meditating  on  Evelyn's  tale. 
There  was  a  link  wanting  in  it,  for  Kitty  must  have 
had  some  motive  for  flight:  the  explanation  that. 
cleared  up  Evelyn's  conduct  left  hers  a  darker  mystery 
than  before.  But  the  relationship  of  marriage  is  so 
delicate,  and  its  web  is  interwoven  of  so  many  small 


186  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

and  tender  filaments,  that  when  it  tears  no  onlooker 
can  ever  tell  precisely  at  what  point  it  has  given  way. 
"Thank  God,"  Dent  reflected,  "there's  nothing  really 
wrong !  Of  course  one  can't  expect  Eve  to  behave  like 
an  ordinary  sensible  chap."  Eemembering  his  anger 
when  he  found  that  Evelyn,  thirty  hours  after  Kitty's 
desertion,  had  fled  in  his  turn,  disappearing  like  a 
comet  into  space,  he  was  glad  he  had  not  crossed  Eve- 
lyn's tracks  at  once.  Time  had  cooled  his  judgment 
and  he  had  come  to  Evol  prepared  to  hear  Evelyn 
out  before  bringing  up  his  own  heavy  guns,  and  now 
they  were  put  out  of  action ;  Evelyn  had  behaved  boy- 
ishly, but  some  latitude  would  have  been  due  to  any 
man  after  reading  that  letter  from  a  six-months'  bride. 
The  shame  and  distress  of  the  young  husband  must 
have  been  very  great. 

"What  did  you  do  then?" 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  I  recollect  taking  her  note 
from  Fraser  and  tearing  it  open  to  read  it,  and  striking 
a  match  to  burn  it,  and  scattering  the  ashes  out  of  my 
window.  After  that  a  blank  till  my  wits  came  back 
to  me  on  the  deck  of  a  Channel  steamer.  I  had  a 
rough  crossing  and  I  was  most  miserably  ill."  Evelyn 
laughed.  "Unromantic,  wasn't  it?  But  the  sickness 
must  have  done  me  good  and  cleared  my  head,  for  I 
can  remember  how  things  began  to  take  shape  again 
bit  by  bit  as  they  do  when  one's  coming  round  after  an 
anaesthetic.  I'd  had  a  good  deal  of  over-strain  all 
the  spring,  grinding  at  Clair  under  difficult  conditions, 
and  I  suppose  I  wasn't  far  off  a  break-down  when  this 
blow  came  and  knocked  me  silly." 

Clear  over  mountain  and  valley  the  moving  moon 
was  going  up  the  sky.  Fifteen  hundred  feet  below, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  187 

the  glacier  torrent  and  its  border  crags  lay  drenched 
in  gloom:  but  the  cliffs  behind  stood  up  striped  in 
great  patches  of  shade  and  shine  like  black  and  white 
marble,  and  behind  again,  flung  back  by  the  interven- 
ing haze  of  light  into  a  ghostly  distance,  height  after 
height  of  the  Pyrenean  range  stretched  out  shadowy 
wings  under  ineffable  lustres.  Among  the  low-grown 
cistus  bushes  and  in  the  saplings  that  overhung 
Evelyn's  tributary  stream,  every  sprig  and  leaf  stood 
up  immovable  like  filigree,  darkly  and  delicately  clear, 
while  the  lawns  that  sloped  in  and  out  of  its  falling 
channel,  short  turf  sprinkled  with  the  shut  buds  of 
flowers,  were  whitened  by  a  mingling  of  dew  and 
moonshine.  Yet,  though  it  was  lighter  than  many  an 
English  winter's  day,  Dent  could  not  read  Evelyn's 
features,  or  the  melancholy  smiling  eyes  which  at  once 
disarmed  him  by  their  frankness  and  baffled  him  by 
their  reserve.  But  he  had  his  own  barometer:  his 
arm  was  still  over  Evelyn  and  through  its  firm,  warm 
pressure  he  was  able  to  maintain  communications 
with  the  difficult  shy  nature,  last  scion  of  the  old  stock 
to  which  his  fathers  had  sworn  fealty.  That  was  a 
fact  Dent  never  forgot ;  and  he  understood  facts  and 
knew  how  to  deal  with  them.  Three  hundred  years 
ago  another  George  Dent  had  ridden  over  Marston 
Moor  knee  to  knee  with  Ralph  Evelyn,  a  sober  trooper 
who  conceived  it  his  chief  military  duty  to  look  after 
his  rather  rakehelly  Captain:  and,  since  benefits 
conferred  form  a  more  lasting  tie  than  benefits  re- 
ceived, it  was  still  a  Dent's  mission  to  look  after  an 
Evelyn  and  to  keep  him  out  of  scrapes  as  well  as  out 
of  danger.  Ralph's  sergeant  had  not  scrupled  to  chide 


188  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

his  officer  when  Ralph  wished  to  get  drunk  at  inop- 
portune moments. 

"It  was  rotten  for  you.  I  can't  think  what  made 
Kitty  write  it ;  she  must  have  had  some  maggot  in  her 
head,  because  she  always  was  so  fond  of  you — fonder, 
if  anything,  than  you  were  of  her.  No  wonder  she 
never  let  me  see  it.  She  knew  I  never  should  have  let 
her  send  it."  So  much  for  the  sugar  coating,  and  now 
for  the  pill.  "But  all  the  same,  my  dear  old 
man,  you  shouldn't  have  gone  off  like  that !  It  looks 
to  me  like  a  misunderstanding,  but  if  it  wasn't — if  you 
and  Kitty  really  did  come  up  against  some  shut  door — 
you  ought  to  have  been  able  to  get  along  on  second 
best.  As  I  said  to  Kitty,  marriage  doesn't  begin  and 
end  with  falling  in  love ;  if  it  did  there'd  be  precious 
few  marriages  that  survived  the  honeymoon.  But  the 
world  doesn't  come  to  an  end  directly  two  people 
realise  that  one  of  them  snores  and  the  other  sniffs, 
which  I  suppose  was  about  the  size  of  it  in  your  case. 
It's  not  as  if  there'd  been  no  foundation  of  respect  or 
affection  to  build  up  your  lives  on !  The  bloom  might 
have  got  a  bit  chipped,  well,  you  know  what  I  mean, 
but  there'd  have  been  plenty  left  to  go  on  on."  Dent's 
voice,  deep  and  musical,  always  had  a  soothing  effect 
on  Evelyn ;  from  no  other  lips  would  he  have  listened 
to  these  ill-expressed,  trite,  and  disconnected  moral- 
ities. 

"And  even  that  isn't  all,"  Dent  resumed  when 
Evelyn  continued  silent.  You'd  have  had  children 
after  a  bit  to  bind  you  together.  I  know  you're  not 
a  religious  chap,  and  marriage  to  you  isn't  a  sacra- 
ment. But  you  do  believe  in  God,  don't  you?" 
Evelyn  gave  an  inarticulate  assent.  He  had  a  faith 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  189 

of  his  own,  and  though  he  would  have  been  puzzled 
to  define  it,  and  neither  churchman  nor  sceptic  would 
have  thought  much  of  it,  he  found  in  it  all  that  his 
spirit  needed  to  rest  on — a  rule  of  conduct  and  a  vision 
of  beauty.  "And  in  doing  your  duty  by  other  people? 
You  wouldn't  say,  would  you,  that  a  man  was  entitled 
to  go  slap  across  country  for  what  he  wanted  without 
minding  riding  off  other  fellows  on  his  way?  Well, 
what  I  mean  is,  our  lives  are  all  tangled  up.  You're 
not  only  the  individual  Charles  Evelyn,  but  your 
father's  heir,  and  Philip's  brother,  and  Kitty's  hus- 
band, and  the  potential  father  of  Kitty's  children. 
Kitty  was  built  to  be  a  mother  of  sons.  But  she  won't 
have  any  if  you  don't  come  back  to  her." 

But  still  there  came  no  reply  from  Evelyn.  "Will 
you  come  down  with  me  to  Perpignan,"  Dent  said 
presently,  "and  see  Kitty?" 

"I  shall  always  be  delighted  to  see  Kitty  when  she 
wants  to  see  me." 

" — i.  e.  you'll  come  if  she  asks  you.  Now  I  don't 
deny,  after  her  letter,  that  you've  a  right  to  hold  off. 
But  do  let's  get  beyond  the  stage  of  talking  about 
rights  and  wrongs.  You  ain't  a  Trades  Union,  old 
chap !  You're  a  man,  and  Kitty's  a  woman  and  your 
wife,  and  the  best  right  that  gives  you  is  the  right  to 
have  more  sense  than  she  has — and  more  generosity 
too,  if  you  come  to  that.  Do  do  the  generous  thing, 
Eve!"  But  the  smile  that  flitted  over  Evelyn's  lips 
was  not  encouraging.  The  old  fashioned  argument 
missed  fire  because  he  had  never  regarded  himself  as 
Kitty's  protector.  He,  protect  Kitty?  She  needed 
no  protection.  She  was  master  of  her  own  spirit  and 
her  own  fate,  to  stand  or  fall  by  her  own  firm  will. 


190  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

"Has  Kitty  sent  me  any  message?" 

"No,  I  don't  bring  an  olive-branch.  But  she's  there 
at  Perpignan  and  she  knows  I'm  here  with  you,  and 
isn't  that  as  good  as  a  message?  You  don't  want  her 
to  go  down  on  her  knees,  do  you?  Little  hussy!  she 
always  was  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  she's  come  more 
than  halfway  to  meet  you. — Mind,  I  can't  think  why 
she  left  you.  It  looks  like  a  genuine  misunderstand- 
ing that  could  be  cleared  up  in  ten  minutes  if  you 
came  face  to  face.  But,  whatever  her  reason  was,  I 
fancy  she's  begun  of  late  to  feel  it  wasn't  good  enough. 
I've  seen  signs  of  coming  off  her  high  horse.  You 
ain't  going  to  stick  on  yours,  are  you,  old  man?  .  .  . 
What's  at  the  bottom  of  nine  broken  marriages  out 
of  ten  is  selfishness.  You  never  were  selfish,  but 
you're  a  bit  too  much  of  an  individualist.  That 
personal  freedom  you're  so  keen  on  ...  You  were 
saying  just  now  that  your  tunes  would  put  their  magic 
over  people  after  you  were  dead,  which  means,  I  take 
it,  that  if  you  write  a  jolly  good  March,  next  time 
there's  a  war  on  it'll  be  playing  fellows  into  foreign 
transports  and  helping  them  to  stick  their  tails  up,  like 
Tipperary  or  The  Girl  I  left  behind  me.  Doesn't  that 
prove  we're  all  links  in  a  chain  that's  for  ever  passing 
on?  'No  man  liveth  to  himself.'  You  go  back  to  your 
wife." 

"No,  I  won't." 

Evelyn  sprang  up  flinging  off  Dent's  arm.  "Don't 
press  me  so  hard,  George !  You've  often  made  me  do 
things  I  didn't  want  to  do,  but  I  won't  do  that.  I 
didn't  desert  Kitty.  She  deserted  me.  I  will  not 
force  myself  on  her." 

"It's  your  duty,  Eve." 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  191 

"It  isn't."  He  pointed  indoors  towards  the  piano 
where  lay  the  score  of  Glair  de  Lune.  "There's  my 
duty." 

"Well,  but — Kitty  wouldn't  meddle  with  your  music, 
would  she?"  Dent  said,  reddening  in  slow  irritation. 
"Why,  you  were  always  at  it !  Meredith  said  all  that 
spring  you  were  at  it  all  day  and  half  the  night !" 

"Meredith  said?  I've  no  desire  to  hear  what 
Meredith  said  ....  There  now,  I  haven't  been 
angry  since  I  left  England!"  He  backed  away  from 
Dent,  throwing  up  one  arm  as  if  to  fend  him  off.  "I 
do  wish  you'd  let  me  alone!  Can't  you  understand 
that  the  job  I've  got  to  do  is  to  make  music,  and  I  can't 
do  it  if  you  come  and  upset  me  like  this?  Look  at  all 
the  time  you've  made  me  waste  to-night!  Probably 
I  shan't  be  able  to  do  a  stroke  of  work  to-morrow 
morning.  I'm  all  out  of  tune !"  There  was  terror  in 
his  eyes  now,  the  wild  terror  of  an  unbroken  horse 
when  it  feels  the  bit :  they  turned  towards  the  night, 
that  June  night  with  its  heaven  of  stars, 

The  mighty  marching  and  the  golden  burning, 

as  if  in  search  of  escape  from  the  chains  that  he  had 
thrown  off  and  which  Dent  was  trying  to  fasten  on  him 
again. 

As  indeed  he  was.  All  his  life  in  London  had  come 
back  to  him,  hot  days  when  every  street  smelt  of  gas  or 
asphalt,  fleeting  crowds  full  of  pale  faces  and  avid 
eyes,  the  jar  of  traffic  and  the  trampling  of  steps, 
crowded  rooms,  shops,  theatres,  callers,  and,  what  was 
far  worse,  the  remorseless  pressure  of  the  second  life 
close  at  his  side,  Kitty's  quick  wits  and  friendly 


192  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

sympathy  by  day,  and  by  night  the  contact  of  her 
beauty,  to  which  he  was  not  at  all  times  indiffer- 
ent. .  .  . 

Once  and  again  that  Saxon  fairness  of  hers  had  set 
him  on  fire.  Happy  moments  for  Kitty  in  her  blind- 
ness !  but  most  unhappy  for  Evelyn,  who  came  out  of 
them  bewildered  and  aching.  They  shamed  him 
because  he  had  never  yet  reconciled  in  himself  the 
warring  elements  of  sense  and  spirit ;  all  he  had  ever 
achieved  was  to  narcotise  the  one  while  the  other 
rioted.  But  it  was  not  so  with  the  savage  beauty  of 
moon  and  stars  and  mountain  solitude;  in  that  cold 
embrace  he  could  lie  down  and  be  tranquillised,  every 
nerve  in  his  body  and  every  faculty  of  his  mind  drawn 
into  one  strong  harmony  which  created  harmony. 
From  discord  only  discord  could  spring !  The  artist 
in  Evelyn  stood  passionately  and  jealously  on  guard 
to  defend  his  work. 

"Let  me  alone,  George!  Kitty  has  her  freedom,  let 
her  keep  it,  and  I'll  keep  mine.  I  can't  stand  that  life 
in  town.  I — I  can't  work  with  other  people  in  the 
room !" 

"Quietly,  quietly,  Eve!" 

"Well,  leave  me  alone,  then." 

Dent  was  frightened.  Fragments  of  popular  sci- 
ence, to  which  he  had  systematically  turned  a  deaf 
ear,  were  running  in  his  head — that  fellow  Nordau  and 
his  rotten  book,  and  those  addle-headed  modern  psy- 
chological Johnnies  that  would  pop  you  into  an 
asylum  before  you  knew  where  you  were.  He  was  the 
more  startled  because  he  had  never  gauged  the  strain 
of  his  own  influence.  He  got  up  and  stood  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  towering  over  Evelyn  and  watch- 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  193 

ing  him  with  an  alarmed,  steady  eye.  "No  one's  going 
to  make  you  do  anything  you  don't  want  to  do.  Hold 
on,  old  man :  you've  been  alone  here  too  long." 

"I'm  all  right  when  I'm  alone.  That's  gracious, 
isn't  it?"  said  Evelyn  smiling,  as  with  the  lightening 
of  the  pressure  of  Dent's  strong  personality  the  tension 
of  his  own  resistance  relaxed  as  well.  "So  sorry! 
I'm  all  right  when  I'm  let  alone.  But  go  back  to 
Kitty  I  won't." 

"Why  did  you  ever  marry  her?"  Dent  asked  sadly. 

Evelyn  was  too  generous  to  answer  that  dangerous 
question.  "Look  here,  it's  all  hours  and  you've  had  a 
long  journey.  You  must  be  dead  tired  and  so  am  I. 
Hadn't  we  better  turn  in  now?  There  are  two  rooms 
overhead  and  most  of  the  furniture  of  the  house  is  in 
the  second  one.  I  can  find  you  sheets  and  a  pillow- 
case, and  if  you  want  a  blanket  you  can  take  a  table- 
cloth out  of  the  press — I  never  sleep  under  anything 
more  than  a  sheet  myself,  and  half  the  time  out  of 
doors.  There's  no  means  of  washing  except  the  river, 
unless  you  like  to  heat  some  water  on  Primus;  I  do 
that  for  shaving  but  I  get  my  bath  in  the  brook.  I'll 
show  you  my  tub  in  the  morning."  He  sighed ;  he  had 
no  wish  to  let  Dent  or  anyone  into  the  secret  of  his 
naiad's  pool.  "If  you  had  warned  me  I'd  have  made 
the  place  more  habitable." 

"Would  you?"  Dent  muttered,  turning  to  follow  him 
into  the  house:  "not  if  I  know  you!" 

"Hey?    WThat's  that?" 

"You  would  have  decamped,  old  man.  I  should 
have  put  my  hand  on  an  empty  nest." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EVELYN  took  Dent  upstairs.  Boxed  between 
kitchen  and  parlour,  a  dark  staircase  gave  an 
a  small  landing  boxed  between  two  bedroom 
doors.  He  did  not  take  Dent  into  his  own  room 
because  he  was  impatient  of  Dent's  presence  in  the 
house;  he  had  so  loved  the  solitude  of  Evol  that  he 
felt  it  profaned  by  the  coming  of  a  second  person, 
especially  of  an  Englishman — and  yet  he  was  glad  to 
see  Dent  too,  in  a  way;  he  was  very  fond  of  George 
Dent.  But  he  did  not  offer  to  show  Dent  over  his 
domain. 

Opening  the  opposite  door,  he  pushed  his  friend  into 
a  wide,  raftered  chamber,  the  walls  white,  the  floor 
uneven  and  so  full  of  lumber  from  other  rooms  that 
Dent  could  scarcely  pick  his  way  over  it  to  the  bed 
in  one  alcove  or  the  massive  wooden  washstand  in  the 
other.  Sheets  and  towels  were  forthcoming  from  a 
press,  ice-cold  brook  water  from  a  bucket  in  the 
kitchen;  they  made  the  bed  between  them,  Evelyn 
grumbling  because  Dent's  fingers  were  all  thumbs; 
Dent  produced  a  toothbrush  from  his  coat  pocket,  and 
Evelyn  a  piece  of  hard  yellow  soap  with  instructions 
to  be  sparing  in  the  use  of  it;  Dent,  left  alone,  heard 
the  key  turn  in  Evelyn's  lock. 

Dent  was  tickled  by  this  precaution,  but  it  was  with 
a  sad  heart  that  he  betook  himself  to  bed.  He  cared 
little  who  was  to  blame,  but  he  did  most  earnestly 
wish  to  find  a  way  out  of  an  impasse  which  seemed  to 
him  intolerable.  Here  were  two  people  who  had 

194 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  195 

known  each  other  all  their  lives,  bib  frock  and  sailor 
suit,  jersey  and  Eton  jacket,  and  now  after  six  months 
of  married  life  they  must  needs  fly  apart  at  a  moment's 
notice — and  for  what?  For  nothing!  Neither  could 
put  finger  on  a  tangible  grievance,  and  yet  their  life- 
long friendship,  their  married  tenderness,  their  solemn 
vows  must  all  be  torn  like  a  cobweb — why?  Simply 
because  they  could  not  live  together.  Sad,  absurd, 
and  terribly  wrong,  wras  Dent's  reflection  as  he  lay 
down  between  Madame  Blanc's  reluctantly  sur- 
rendered handwoven  linen  sheets,  embroidered  with 
the  entwined  initials  of  her  maiden  and  married 
names,  while  June  moonlight  fell  like  snow  over  the 
slope  of  cistus  bushes,  green  leaf  and  withering  lilac 
flower,  steeply  banked  up  behind  his  window;  but 
though  he  saw  it  all  so  clearly  he  had  had  no  power  to 
enforce  common  sense  on  Kitty  at  Perpignan,  nor  now 
on  Evelyn — though  against  this  gipsy  life  of  Evelyn's 
every  sane  instinct  in  him  rebelled.  Now,  in  high 
summer,  for  a  fanciful  romantic  chap  like  Evelyn  the 
remote  and  wild  loveliness  of  Evol  might  have  a 
charm ;  but  what  must  it  have  been  in  winter,  or  when 
"the  storm  of  the  swallow"  massed  its  drifted  snows 
against  the  door?  Who  but  a  madman  would  will- 
ingly endure  the  arctic  cold,  the  gales,  the  terrifying 
solitude  of  those  interminable  nights? 

Yet  Dent  next  morning  found  himself  on  the  road 
for  Perpignan,  his  mission  unaccomplished.  Evelyn 
was  up  first  and  had  set  breakfast  going  before  he 
roused  his  brother-in-law;  over  their  coffee  and  eggs, 
and  the  fretfulness  of  Primus,  which  according  to 
Evelyn  had  got  out  of  bed  the  wrong  side,  there  was 
no  opportunity  for  serious  discussion  (Evelyn  saw  to 


196  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

that) ;  and  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  it  seemed  to 
be  taken  for  granted  that  he  would  return  to  Per- 
pignan.  Evelyn  offered  to  stroll  with  him  as  far  as 
Eia.  Sixteen  kilometres  down  hill  and  as  many  back, 
with  not  a  mile  of  smooth  or  level  going  in  the  twenty : 
it  amazed  Dent  that  Evelyn  should  make  light  of  such 
a  walk.  His  pace  too  was  startling,  it  was  all  Dent 
could  do  to  keep  up  with  him.  Their  start  in  the 
early  morning  was  touched  with  a  chill,  the  sun  before 
they  got  to  Ria  was  burning  like  a  furnace ;  attired  in 
a  wide  and  disreputable  straw  hat,  thin  flannels,  and  a 
cotton  shirt,  Evelyn  remained  indifferent  to  either. 

But  when  they  came  in  sight  of  Ria  Dent  resolutely 
pulled  up.  "If  you  don't  mind,  Eve,  we'll  call  ten 
minutes'  halt.  I  can't  talk  at  this  pace."  He  sat 
down  on  a  wayside  stone  and  mopped  his  brow,  while 
Evelyn,  his  hat  tipped  to  the  back  of  his  head,  stood 
before  him  like  a  saint  in  a  halo,  leaning  on  his  holly 
stick.  At  their  feet  the  Evol  valley  dropped  down  to 
meet  the  main  valley,  torrent  falling  into  torrent 
through  heights  clothed  in  ash  and  lime  and  silver 
birch,  and  low  green  lawns  where  from  dawn  till 
twilight  butterflies  hovered  like  rich  tropical  flowers 
come  alive  and  dancing  in  the  sun.  Runnels  diverted 
from  the  main  stream  and  led  along  slender  half- 
natural  aqueducts,  their  water  fleeting  in  loop  below 
silver  loop  down  foot-wide  channels  between  banks  of 
flowery  turf,  kept  all  these  grassy  slopes,  even  in  June, 
as  green  and  cool  as  April.  Far  up  the  main  valley- 
head  the  brilliant  snows  of  a  late  spring  lingered  on 
more  than  one  dark  peak,  and  out  of  them,  from  the 
high  frontier-citadel  that  Vauban  built  for  his  master 
the  great  Louis,  one  of  Napoleon's  roads  came  down 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  197 

under  cliff  and  precipice  and  between  crossed  profiles 
of  naked  rock  towards  the  sultry  plains  of  Perpignan. 
Ria  itself  was  full  of  river-murmurs :  a  tiny  and  sleepy 
old  French  town,  white  and  golden  houses  stretched 
out  on  a  hillside  under  a  firwood,  and  a  church  with  a 
spire  of  open  ironwork  telling  every  hour  twice  over 
to  an  irregular  cobbled  Place  under  rows  of  shady 
plane  trees.  Dent  was  near  enough  to  it  to  dis- 
tinguish every  steep  roof  and  painted  wall,  and  the 
green  of  sunshutters,  and  the  stripes  of  black  velvet 
that  were  shadows,  and  the  twinkle  of  bead  portieres 
swinging  over  cool  doorways,  and  the  trellised 
gardens,  and  the  pink,  blue,  and  green  washing  hung 
out  in  them  and  fluttering  for  sun  and  wind  to  dry. 

It  was  a  landscape  less  wild  and  austere  than  Evol, 
but  intensely  Southern;  water-fresh  even  under  the 
torrid  June  sunshine,  and  glowing  with  the  most  burn- 
ing contrasts  of  moist  colour.  There  was  room  in  it 
for  the  urbane  civilisation  of  France :  for  the  Maine's 
gilt  staff  and  tricolour  flag,  and  for  the  long  glitter  of 
a  steel  curve  on  the  railway,  and  for  the  throb,  throb 
of  a  stationary  engine,  which  whistled  to  itself  from 
time  to  time  in  the  preoccupied  and  meditative  manner 
characteristic  of  Continental  trains. 

"But  have  you  anything  fresh  to  say?"  said  Evelyn. 
"I  haven't."  Nor  had  Dent,  but  that  did  not  prevent 
him  from  saying  it.  He  went  over  his  old  ground, 
while  Evelyn  stared  wearily  at  the  fleshy  limbs  of  a 
cactus  and  listened  to  the  lute-note  of  a  nightingale  in 
a  Ria  garden  full  of  roses  and  quarantaines  and  green- 
clustered  vines.  But  in  the  end  Dent  had  a  surprise 
for  him  after  all. 

"It's  no  good,  old  fellow,"  Evelyn  said,  holding  out 


198  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

his  hand.  "I'm  glad  to  have  seen  you,  and  you  know 
now  where  to  find  me;  if  I  move  I'll  send  you  my 
address."  He  sighed,  feeling  an  immense  disinclin- 
ation to  give  anyone  his  address;  there  was  no  denying 
that  Dent's  coming  had  brushed  some  of  the  bloom 
from  his  peach.  "My  love  to  Kitty." 

"I'll  give  no  such  message,"  said  Dent  roughly. 
"Come  and  give  it  yourself  if  you  want  to."  Har- 
boured anger  broke  out  at  last,  and  he  dragged  his 
hand  away.  "Of  all  the  careless,  cold-blooded — ! 
Haven't  you  any  manhood  in  you?" 

Evelyn  glanced  at  the  sun.  He  rarely  carried  a 
watch  at  fivol.  "Hadn't  you  better  be  getting  on? 
It  must  be  close  on  one  o'clock  and  the  train  goes  at 
the  hour.  It  isn't  always  nice  for  a  girl  as  young  as 
Kitty  to  be  staying  alone  at  a  French  inn." 

"She's  not  alone." 

"Well,  even  with  a  maid — " 

"Maid,  she  hasn't  any  maid.     Meredith's  there." 

Dent  was  surprised  to  find  that  it  cost  him  an  effort 
to  say  these  words,  and  that  they  lingered  in  the  air 
as  if  they  required  an  explanation.  He  glanced 
sharply  at  his  brother-in-law.  Evelyn  was  all  polite 
attention.  Yet  it  irked  Dent  to  find  that  he  could  not 
divest  his  manner  of  a  shade  of  constraint.  Why? 
He  knew  not :  he  had  never  expected  to  feel  impelled  to 
apologise.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  not 
happened  to  mention  Meredith  the  night  before,  so 
that  it  was  like  letting  slip  a  confession.  ...  A  con- 
fession, nonsense !  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

"He  offered  to  come  with  us  because  neither 
Kitty  nor  I  knew  our  way  about,  not  having  been  out 
of  England  before.  I  don't  speak  much  French ;  and 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  199 

you  can't  get  a  Cook's  tour— not  up  here  you  can't— 
and  I  never  can  get  the  hang  of  these  foreign  time- 
tables." Evelyn's  eyes  were  dancing. 

"So  you  engaged  Meredith  for  a  courier?  Happy 
thought !  I'm  sure  he'd  make  a  very  good  one."  He 
threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  out.  "And  he  stayed 
with  Kitty  while  you  came  on  after  me?  Happy 
Meredith !  No,  no,"  as  Dent  started,  "that's  a  joke, 
and  rather  a  rotten  one.  I  do  honestly  call  it  a  top- 
ping idea !  Comme  vous  dites,  George,  vous  ne  parlez 
pas  beaucoup  f  rangais,  and  the  Lord  knows  where  you 
might  have  fetched  up  without  the  admirable  Edmund 
to  look  after  you.  Still,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  run  back 
to  Perpignan  now." 

"If — if  you  don't  like  it,  why  don't  you  come  too?" 
"Dear  fellow !  that  might  look  as  if  I  didn't  like  it." 
"Oh,  you  idiot !"  Dent  faced  him,  very  hot,  rather 
red,  his  square  shoulders  held  back  with  their  old 
military  set.  What  right  had  Evelyn  to  put  him  in 
the  wrong?  Dent  angry,  once  in  ten  years,  was 
formidable:  but  Dent  merely  out  of  temper  was  as 
impatient  and  indiscreet  as  a  schoolboy.  "Well,  if 
you  won't,  don't  blame  anybody  but  yourself  if  some 
one  else  nips  in  that  has  more  guts  than  you  have,  and 
wipes  your  eye." 

"The  postscript  of  a  lady's  letter!"  smiled  Evelyn. 
He  too  was  angry  by  now,  but  he  did  not  show  it 
except  by  a  touch  of  polite  frost  in  his  voice.  "But 
I'm  afraid  my  trust  in  Kitty  is  incorrigible.  Give  my 
love  to  Edmund,  will  you?" 

But  he  was  angry.  He  trusted  Kitty,  but  he  did  not 
trust  Meredith ;  he  had  not  forgotten  Meredith's  lapse 


200  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

from  the  code  that  bids  a  man  respect  the  wife  of  a 
friend  who  owes  him  money,  and  reluctantly  he 
wondered  how  Kitty  came  to  forget  it.  Was  that  quite 
fair  dealing  either  by  him  or  by  her  brother?  Dent, 
one  might  be  sure,  knew  nothing  of  that  lapse — had  he 
done  so  he  would  have  shut  his  door  on  Meredith. 
Kitty  then  was  keeping  Meredith's  secret.  Good! 
so  far  Evelyn  went  with  her,  holding  that  a  man's 
follies  are  better  forgotten.  But  if  she  kept  a  secret 
from  Dent  she  was  in  honour  bound  to  respect  Dent's 
principles.  She  ought  not  to  have  placed  him  inno- 
cently in  a  false  position.  His  oldfashioned  and  strict 
rules  might  be  defied,  but  they  should  not  have  been 
evaded.  And  reluctantly  Evelyn  found  himself  con- 
demning Kitty — she  ought  to  have  been  more  careful. 
On  his  own  account  Evelyn  was  not  alarmed.  His 
faith  in  his  wife  was  too  firm ;  he  would  scarcely  have 
believed  her  own  word  against  her  perfect  purity. 
The  stars  might  fall,  but  not  Kitty  Dent !  ( It  was  as 
Kitty  Dent  that  he  thought  of  her  nine  times  out  of 
ten.)  But  he  was  offended:  his  pride  was  stung. 
Evelyn  possessed  no  historic  sense,  would  have  sold 
Temple  Evelyn  without  a  pang,  and  after  one  moment 
of  irritation  did  not  even  resent  the  news  that 
Meredith  was  his  tenant,  but  his  moral  delicacy  was 
fastidious  in  a  high  degree.  It  was  rarely  touched, 
but  Batty  had  power  to  touch  it.  She  had  done  so 
when  he  learnt  from  her  of  his  betrayal  by  a  man  to 
whom  he  was  under  an  obligation.  The  hours  had 
seemed  long  to  him  till  he  could  clear  that  debt;  it  was 
four  in  the  morning  when  he  heard  of  it,  and  his 
cheque  was  in  Meredith's  hands  by  noon.  This 
"chastity  of  honour,  that  feels  a  stain  like  a  wound," 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  201 

felt  itself  stained  by  Kitty's  coming  with  Meredith 
to  Perpignan.  People  are  so  quick  to  think  evil! 
And  even  if  one  could  afford  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
world's  misjudgment — as  who  can?  Few  of  the  reck-' 
less,  and  fewer  of  the  wise — there  was  one  person 
whom  it  was  exceedingly  dangerous  to  mislead,  and 
that  was  Meredith  himself.  And  in  slow  still  anger 
Evelyn  turned  back  towards  £vol :  Kitty  should  have 
been  more  careful  of  that  one  trust  she  still  held  for 
him — an  honourable  name. 

But  when  Ria  was  left  behind,  and  forsaking  even 
the  mule-track — itself  lonely  enough  and  hard  to 
follow,  as  Dent  had  found  the  night  before — he 
plunged  into  a  mere  thread  of  path  over  the  hills,  he 
soon  began  to  feel  soothed  again,  as  the  last  faint  wail 
of  the  train  died  at  a  bend  of  the  valley,  and  the  peace 
of  those  great  upland  solitudes  shut  him  in.  Ria 
glowed  in  green  and  gold,  in  lawns  and  flowery 
orchards :  but  Ria  was  soon  far  away :  high  mountains 
enfolded  him  in  the  sweep  of  austere  wings,  wine- 
dark,  streaked  with  snow :  longer  than  the  road,  and 
steeper,  his  path  went  up  and  down,  now  fledged  with 
living  stone,  now  forcing  him  to  wet  his  feet  in  the 
ford  of  a  brook,  now  going  all  ways  in  a  pasture  strewn 
with  boulders  mantled  in  wild  maidenhair,  while 
pink  under  their  grey  shadow  the  sweetwilliams  lifted 
their  tiny  starry  heads.  By  one  lonely  pool,  clear  as 
a  diamond  in  its  cup  of  marble,  Evelyn  undressed  to 
cool  his  limbs  in  its  rippling  water.  Why  not?  He 
was  tired  after  the  long  tramp  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
miles;  and  there  were  no  spectators  except  the  brown 
lizards  and  the  sapphire  dragonflies  that  hung  poised 
over  him  on  their  whirring  wings  like  an  incarnate 


202  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

flame.  When  the  sun  had  dried  him  he  put  on  his 
clothes  again  and  plunged  into  a  fir  forest,  a  dimness 
of  sepia  shadows  on  a  red  pavement ;  then  down  into  a 
defile  where  dawn  came  at  ten  and  gloom  at  half  past 
three;  and  thence  up  to  a  col  from  whose  rocky  top, 
over  peak  after  peak,  crossed  like  the  waves  of  a  purple 
sea,  one  could  discern  a  June-blue  rim  of  the  sea's 
self,  that  eternal  summer-blue  of  the  Mediterranean. 

And  soon  after  that  he  saw  far  off  but  clear,  a  toy 
on  the  vast  sunset-reddened  mountain-side,  the  inn  of 
Evol  which  was  now  his  home.  Yes,  it  was  his  home 
again  now  Dent  had  gone:  and  oh  the  peace  of  the 
high  sierras,  the  brimming  cup  of  solitude!  It  had 
never  tasted  so  sweet  to  Evelyn  as  to-day  when  Dent's 
coming  had  for  a  moment  broken  its  delicious 
monotony. 

The  sun  had  set  when  he  came  down  his  own  ravine 
and  his  own  slope  of  cistus  bushes.  No  one  was  in 
sight  on  the  cart  track,  nor  had  he  met  anyone  during 
the  last  five  miles  except  a  couple  of  Catalan  lads  who 
wished  him  good  night  in  their  harsh,  half-Spanish 
dialect  as  they  ran  on  to  their  own  metairie.  He  had 
had  nothing  to  eat  since  breakfast  except  a  lump  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  a  handful  of  figs,  and  he  was 
hungry  and  tired,  but  not  beyond  that  prickling  glow 
of  fatigue  which  makes  it  exceedingly  pleasant  to  sit 
down  to  a  large  meal.  There  is  a  happy  temper  proper 
to  eighteen,  and  rarely  prolonged  after  four  and 
twenty,  when  one  never  remembers  that  one  has  a 
body,  unless  the  cisterns  overflow  in  sheer  riot  of  the 
joy  of  life.  Evelyn  was  thirty,  but  to-night  he  was 
near  enough  to  that  puppy  condition  to  come  down  the 
steep  hillside  at  a  run,  and  leap  the  brook  in  a  splash 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  203 

of  spray,  and  vault  a  stone  wall  into  the  yard  which 
had  originally  enclosed  Madame  Blanc's  pig.  His 
door  stood  open,  it  had  been  open  all  day;  the  only 
thing  Evelyn  ever  locked  up  was  the  MS.  of  Clair  de 
Lune.  He  ran  up  the  steps  into  the  parlour — and 
stopped :  stopped  dead,  his  fingertips  and  the  muscles 
of  his  chest  tingling,  and  his  hair  stiffening  like  the 
coat  of  a  frightened  dog.  In  the  dark  of  the  shuttered 
parlour  a  motionless  figure  waited  for  him :  it  was  in 
white  from  head  to  foot,  tall,  straight,  and  featureless 
as  if  it  wore  a  mask  or  a  shroud. 

"What — ?"  Evelyn  began,  and  could  not  go  on. 
He  was  frightened  to  his  very  soul,  with  the  fear  that 
comes  recurrent  like  the  pain  of  a  scald:  a  horrible 
shock,  a  benumbing  arrest,  and  then  a  fresh  heartshake 
of  panic  when  he  remembered  that  there  was  not 
another  house  within  two  miles  of  him.  But  his  re- 
action was  as  rapid  as  his  fear.  It  had  to  be  mastered 
or  it  would  have  mastered  him:  and  though  every 
nerve  in  him  crawled  and  shrank  he  forced  himself 
to  go  on  and  touch  the  vague  shape. 

"Good  God !     It's  a  woman !" 

She  pushed  up  her  veil.  "Say,  Charles,  what  did 
you  take  me  for — a  ghost?" 

"Sophy!"  Evelyn  articulated  with  difficulty.  His 
fear  was  gone  as  if  it  had  never  existed,  but  his 
astonishment  was  profound.  No  ghost  could  have 
surprised  him  more  than  this  apparition  of  Miss 
Carter,  at  nightfall,  in  his  remote  mountain  eyrie. 

"Sophy !  is  it  really  you?" 

"Looks  like  me,  doesn't  it?"  said  Sophy  with  hoi- 
carefree  laugh. 

Pulling  off  her  glove,  she  put  her  bare  hand  into 


204  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Evelyn's  and  held  up  her  face.  "Kiss  me.  I  haven't 
seen  yon  for  over  a  year  and  I've  come  a  long  way  to 
see  yon.  Jolly  well  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  kiss  me." 

Evelyn  yielded.  The  sensation  was  strange:  her 
lips  burnt.  He  had  not  felt  the  slightest  desire  to  kiss 
her,  but  it  would  have  been  churlish  to  refuse,  and  in 
some  puzzling  way  that  fevered  yet  fresh  and  soft 
touch  gave  him  pleasure.  He  stood  back  and  stared 
at  her  in  profound  curiosity,  while  Sophy  sat  down 
again  in  the  wooden  armchair  out  of  which  she  had 
got  up  to  meet  him.  Now  that  his  eyes  were  ac- 
customed to  the  gloom  of  indoors,  he  saw  that  there 
was  really  nothing  remarkable  in  her  toilette.  She 
wore  a  white  dress,  and  over  it  a  long  white  motor 
cloak  and  veiled  hood:  white  boots,  white  stockings, 
thick  white  suede  gloves  that  wrinkled  on  her  arm. 
Her  clothes  were  probably  French,  but  apart  from 
their  colour — and  he  remembered  that  Sophy  had 
always  been  fond  of  wearing  white — there  was  in  them 
no  incongruous  association  of  the  Boulevards :  no  dis- 
harmony between  them  and  the  rough  surroundings  of 
an  Evol  inn.  She  carried  no  bracelet  nor  ring,  nor 
even  a  brooch  at  her  throat,  and  the  thick  silken  folds 
fell  plainly  round  a  figure  which  had  always  been  as 
slim  and  straight  as  a  boy's;  even  her  white  suede 
boots  were  boyishly  strong  and  thick-soled. 

"But,  Sophy,  how  did  you  get  here?" 

"  'Came  up  in  a  farm  cart  from  Kia.  Lord,  what  a 
road!  I  thought  the  rocks  would  come  down  on  top 
of  me.  All  the  way  up  I  said  to  the  mountains 
'Don't  fall  on  us !'  " 

"You  came  on  purpose  to  see  me?"  Evelyn  brushed 
back  his  hair  as  if  his  head  needed  clearing.  "My  dear 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  205 

girl,  how  very  charming  of  you !  But  you  can't  stay 
here,  you  know.  Yes,  of  course  I'm  pleased  to  see 
you — rather  so — as  pleased  as  Punch!  But  there's 
absolutely  no  accommodation  for  ladies.  Why  on 
earth  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming? 
You're  my  second  unexpected  visitor  in  twenty-four 
hours,  and  my  brain  is  reeling  under  the  shock.  I 
haven't  a  thing  in  the  house  to  feed  you  on  but  eggs. 
If  you  had  only  written !" 

"I  did  write  to  tell  you  about  Millerand." 

"I  never  had  it— 

"No,  because  I  never  stuck  it  in  the  post.  I  wrote  it 
and  I  folded  it  and  put  a  seal  upon  it — and  then  I 
chucked  it  into  my  bureau  and  came  off  in  a  hurry. 
If  Fifine  finds  it  she'll  post  it,  and  you'll  get  it,  and 
it'll  tell  you  I'm  going  to  a  Queen's  Hall  concert  to- 
night, but  I'm  not.  I'm  here.  I  couldn't  wait.  Not  one 
single  second  longer,  except  to  go  and  see  Millerand  on 
my  way  through  Paris,  and  that  was  a  bit  of  an  effort, 
I  can  tell  you.  Who  was  your  other  friend?" 

"George  Dent,  my  brother-in-law.  He  slept  here 
last  night  and  ate  up  the  last  of  my  bacon.  By  Jove, 
it  would  have  been  funny  if  you  had  run  into  him!" 
Evelyn  chuckled;  but  he  soon  grew  grave  again. 
"Sophy,  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder  that  I  can't  be 
polite.  You  did  not  come  over  to  admire  the  scenery, 
did  you?  What  on  earth  do  you  want?" 

"You." 

"Me?" 

"Just  you.  No,  you  didn't  know,  did  you?  and  I 
never  meant  to  tell  you.  'Dare  say  I  never  should 
have  if  you  hadn't  started  writing  to  me  about  Miller- 
and. That  woke  it  all  up  again  just  when  I  thought 


206  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

I  was  getting  over  it,  so  I  collapsed  and  came  off  to 
find  you.  Come  here."  Evelyn,  who  had  been  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  table  swinging  one  foot,  slid  off  it 
and  approached  her.  "Kneel  down,"  said  Sophy. 
She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  as  he  dropped  on  one 
knee.  "Oh !  how  good  that  feels !  I've  waited  so  long 
for  it.  ...  I'll  go  away  again  as  soon  as  you  like.  I 
know  you  aren't  fond  of  me.  You  aren't  ever  fond  of 
women,  are  you?  some  men  are  like  that.  I'll  go 
to-morrow  if  you  like,  but  I  just  had  to  come.  D'you 
mind?" 

"Little  Sophy.  .  .   !" 

"You  aren't  angry  with  me?" 

"No,  but  I'm  not— I  can't—" 

"Lord,  as  if  I  didn't  know  that!"  She  laughed, 
pulling  down  his  head  on  her  shoulder.  "There,  there, 
don't  you  be  shy — there's  nothing  in  me  for  a  man  to 
feel  shy  about.  You  don't  have  to  treat  me  with  any 
ceremony.  I  expect  Meredith  told  you  as  much  as 
that,  didn't  he?  he  knows  all  there  is  to  know,  and 
that's  a  good  lot.  I've  had  a  lot  of  lovers.  I'm  only 
a  guttersnipe  out  of  a  French  studio.  I'm  just  dirt 
really,  and  that's  the  way  you  can  treat  me  if  you  like. 
Oh,  I  do  love  the  feel  of  you !" 

"May  I  ask  you  one  question?" 

She  had  wound  her  arms  under  his  arms,  and  under 
his  cheek  he  could  feel  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  breath. 
"Don't  I  keep  telling  you  you  can  do  as  you  like? 
D'you  think  I've  got  any  pride  left  in  me — or  any 
other  little  fads?  Fire  away." 

"Was  Meredith  your  lover?" 

"Yes — my  first,  years  ago  in  Paris,  when  I  was  a 
girl.  He  didn't  behave  well  to  me,  Edmund  didn't. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  207 

Isn't  that  ugly  English?  when  I'm  excited  I  forget  to 
talk  like  a  lady." 

And  all  the  while  she  was  flinging1  these  confessions 
at  Evelyn  with  her  strange  fiery  recklessness,  she 
retained  in  externals  her  old  modest  grace,  her  finished 
delicacy  of  dress  and  pose  and  bearing,  and  the  refined 
soft  voice  to  which  her  French  breeding  had  given  a 
tinge  of  foreign  charm.  Still  on  one  knee  before  her, 
Evelyn  raised  himself  and  held  her  away.  "Sophy, 
you're  not  to  say  things  like  that  I  won't  have 
it!" 

She  uttered  a  little  laugh  of  delight.  "Give  a  man 
an  inch  and —  But  you  do  look  so  awfully  well, 
Charles !  quite  different  from  the  way  you  used  to  look 
in  town.  It  was  too  much  for  you,  all  that  London 
racket,  I  shouldn't  have  let  you  do  it  if  I'd  been  your 
wife.  You  ought  to  have  lived  in  the  country  where 
you  could  get  along  with  your  old  ops.  without  being 
bothered.  You  used  to  look  so  tired  and  delicate  and 
jumpy,  especially  of  evenings;  you  didn't  sleep  well, 
did  you?  But  now  you  look  as  if  you  slept  like  a  top 
and  lived  on  beefsteak  and  beer!  Well  there,  you 
can't  have  it  both  ways — you  wouldn't  like  it  if  your 
wife  knew  as  much  about  men  as  I  do.  Anyhow 
you've  got  a  place  that  suits  you  now !" 

"It's  the  heavenly  solitude—  Evelyn  began,  and 
checked  himself,  flushing;  but  Sophy  only  screwed  up 
her  features  into  a  fleeting  grimace. 

"Well,  of  all  the  rude—!  No,  bless  you,  I  don't 
mind:  I  never  spoil  anybody's  solitude.  I'm  not 
spoiling  yours,  am  I?  No  more  than  a  fly  on  the 
windowpane.  You  don't  feel  a  bit  the  less  alone 
because  I'm  here." 


208  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Honestly,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream,"  said 
Evelyn  slowly.  "All  this  may  be  familiar  to  you,  but 
it's  absolute  news  to  me.  You're  not  playing  off  an 
elaborate  hoax,  are  you?  No?  Well,  it's  a  queer 
world.  What  on  earth  made  you  take  a  fancy  to  me, 
little  Sophy?  I  don't  deserve  your  kindness."  He 
rose  and  stood  looking  down  at  Sophy,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets;  it  was  true  that  he  felt  at  ease  before  her, 
though  he  ought  to  have  felt  shy. 

For  it  was  evidently  true  that  she  loved  him,  and 
with  a  love  that  made  no  demands  on  him;  and  if 
there  is  one  atmosphere  which  more  than  any  other 
sets  a  man  at  ease  it  is  that  of  a  love  like  Sophy's, 
shameless  and  contented.  She  asked  no  questions, 
required  no  sacrifice,  held  up  no  code  of  morality  or 
even  of  manners :  he  was  free  to  follow  his  own  inclin- 
ations, as  free  as  if  he  had  been  alone.  The  strange 
thing  was  that  he  felt  as  free  to  leave  her  as  to  take  her. 
He  perceived  that  she  never  would  refuse  him  any- 
thing, and  yet  she  gave  him,  strongly  and  strangely, 
the  impression  of  one  who  would  be  as  well  or  better 
pleased  if  no  more  were  asked  than  she  had  already 
given. 

"People  are  often  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,"  said 
Evelyn  between  humour  and  sadness.  "But  why  were 
you?" 

She  fingered  his  sleeve.  "Nothing  on  but  that  thin 
shirt!  Aren't  you  cold?  It's  pretty  near  night.  Put 
on  your  coat."  He  had  left  it  flung  over  the  back  of 
a  chair  when  he  went  to  Ria,  and  Sophy  caught  it  up 
and  came  behind  him.  "Put  it  on."  Evelyn  slipped 
his  arms  into  it.  "That's  better,"  said  Sophy,  button- 
ing it  for  him  like  a  nursemaid.  "Men  never  remem- 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  209 

ber  to  take  proper  care  of  themselves.  But  you  do 
look  ever  so  much  better  than  you  used  to.  You're 
getting  quite  stout!"  She  felt  his  ribs.  "Fat,  I  call 
it." 

"Look  here,  that  tickles — drop  it !  And  I'm  not  fat 
either,  I'm  in  topping  form,"  Evelyn's  tone  was 
indignant.  "How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Since  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  thought  you 
never  were  going  to  turn  up !" 

"What,  and  no  tea?  You  poor,  wretched  infant, 
you  must  be  famished!  And  weren't  you  frightened 
out  of  your  little  wits,  to  be  up  here  all  alone  in  these 
trackless  solitudes  when  it  grew  dark?" 

"Well,  I  was,  rather.  Do  they  have  wolves  in  the 
Pyrenees  now?  Oh,  not  even  in  winter?  Well,  that's 
what  the  man  said  in  Ria,  but  you  never  know.  It's 
just  the  sort  of  place  where  they  would  have  wolves. 
And  there  are  wild  boars  and  snakes,  he  said  so.  I 
was  afraid  to  stop  out  of  doors  because  of  them,  and 
I  didn't  like  it  much  indoors  because  a  roomful  of 
furniture  always  makes  me  feel  like  seeing  ghosts. 
If  I  ever  do  see  one  it'll  be  the  finish  of  me.  You 
thought  I  was  one,  didn't  you,  when  you  came  in? 
You  made  me  jump  too,  giving  such  a  start." 

Evelyn  had  begun  to  lay  the  table,  and  Sophy  rose 
to  help  him,  taking  the  cloth  from  his  hand  and  shak- 
ing it  out  and  pulling  it  even  and  smoothing  it  down 
with  more  care  than  its  rather  tumbled  condition 
deserved.  "No,  I  took  you  for  one  of  those  unpleas- 
ant objects  that  appear  to  people  to  warn  them  they're 
going  to  die  within  a  twelvemonth,  you  know  the 
style  of  thing,  horrid,  Scottish,  coffined-looking  bogies 
with  veiled  eyes.  That  motor  hood  of  yours  looked 


210  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

just  like  a  winding  sheet  drawn  up  over  your — Hallo, 
what  is  it  now?" 

Sophy  with  a  little  shriek  had  clapped  her  hand 
over  his  lips.  "You  be  quiet !  I  tell  you  ghosts,  give 
me  the  creeps,"  she  said,  recovering  herself  with  a 
visible  effort.  "Lots  of  things  do :  I'm  an  awful  cow- 
ard. Most  girls  like  me  are.  But  I've  always  been 
afraid  of  the  dark,  all  my  life,  even  before  .  .  .  and 
of  nasty,  wild,  uncanny-looking  scenery,  too.  I  was 
funky  coming  up  in  the  cart,  this  place  is  so  awfully 
lonely  and  stern;  and  it  gets  worse  after  sunset.  Of 
course  it  really  is  as  steep  as  a  roof,  if  you  once  started 
to  roll  down  off  that  road  you  wouldn't  ever  fetch 
up  till  you  got  to  the  bottom,  and  then  what  was  left 
of  you  would  be  drowned,  but  it  isn't  that.  I  do  hate 
the  dark,  I  just  can't  stand  it.  Not  so  much  when 
it's  really  black  and  you  can't  see  anything  at  all — 
what's  worst  is  those  half-lights  when  there  are  beastly 
shadows  in  the  corner  of  the  room." 

This  confession  touched  Evelyn,  himself  not  al- 
ways valiant,  and  accustomed  to  be  outdone  in  cool 
daring  by  Kitty.  He  lit  the  lamp.  "Let's  chivy  the 
ghosts  and  the  shadows  away." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  now  you're  here!" 
said  Sophy. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BUT  all  the  while  they  sat  at  supper  together, 
drinking  coffee  and  eating  boiled  eggs  and 
bread  and  butter  ( much  the  same  fare,  less  the 
bacon  and  the  Benedictine,  as  had  been  set  before 
George  Dent),  Evelyn's  mind  was  occupied  with  the 
insoluble  problem  that  Sophy's  presence  offered  him. 
Bit  by  bit  her  story  grew  clear  to  him,  a  simple  story, 
bewildering  only  to  his  want  of  vanity.  This  strange 
love,  pure  in  essence,  had  been  at  his  service  for  years, 
though  he  had  never  known  of  it;  during  the  winter 
of  his  life  with  Kitty  it  had  survived  the  fiery  pangs 
of  jealousy ;  during  twelve  months  of  separation  and 
silence  it  had  lain  self-enfolded  in  a  bitter  patience, 
rather  gathering  than  losing  force  apparently  by  con- 
stant dreaming  over  the  beloved  image,  till  when  Eve- 
lyn gave  her  the  clue  she  had  seized  on  her  way  of 
escape.  Evelyn  wondered  now  why  he  had  given  it 
her.  But  it  had  seemed  a  very  simple,  a  very  natural 
thing  to  do. 

At  the  time  when  Evelyn  came  out  to  6vol,  all 
the  money  he  had  on  him  was  the  balance  of  the  sum 
which  he  had  raised  in  Fetter  Lane  to  repay  his  debt 
to  Meredith.  The  timely  letting  of  Temple  Evelyn, 
on  terms  of  a  year's  rent — and  a  heavy  rent — in  ad- 
vance, had  enabled  him  to  get  clear  of  the  Jews  and 
establish  himself  and  his  piano  in  Monsieur  Blanc's 
inn,  but  there  remained  the  rent  of  his  Chelsea  flat 
to  be  found,  and  an  allowance  to  be  paid  through  his 
211 


212  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

lawyers  into  his  wife's  account.  He  would  sooner 
have  shot  himself  than  leave  Kitty  dependent  on 
her  brother.  He  would  as  soon  have  sold  her  sap- 
phires. It  was  therefore  not  many  months  before  he 
began  to  want  money. 

How  to  get  it  without  returning  to  life  was  the 
difficulty;  and  then  it  was  that  after  long  rumina- 
tion he  remembered  Sophy.  To  give  his  address  to 
Dimsdale  Smith  was  probably  tantamount  to  giving 
it  to  Kitty;  his  bank  and  his  lawyers  were  safe  but 
as  musical  agents  incompetent;  of  the  men  of  his 
acquaintance,  some  were  lazy  and  others  indiscreet. 
But  Sophy  was  as  close  as  wax,  knew  Millerand,  had 
the  etiquette  of  professional  Paris  at  her  fingertips, 
and  would  always  take  any  quantity  of  trouble  for  a 
well-deserving  friend.  "Dear  Sophy,"  such  was  the 
informal  style  of  Evelyn's  letter  to  her,  "will  you 
see  if  Millerand  would  care  to  produce  the  enclosed 
Suite?  It's  jolly  good  and  just  the  sort  of  stuff  he's 
always  looking  for.  Tell  him  I  didn't  forget  to  give  his 
old  lutes  a  chance  in  the  Source  qui  tombe  sur  un 
gazon  fleuri.  Sell  it  outright,  get  the  best  terms  out 
of  him  you  can,  and  pay  the  cheque  into  my  bank, 
but  don't  give  him  or  anyone  my  address,  there's  a 
dear  girl.  I  know  you'll  do  this  for  E.  C.  E." 

This  was  in  the  April  after  Evelyn's  disappearance. 
The  production  of  his  Suite1,  rushed  through  by  forced 
marches,  was  the  most  notable  event  of  the  close  of 
Millerand's  musical  season.  It  had  set  the  composer 
once  more  safely  on  his  financial  legs,  for  Sophy  was 
a  shrewd  hand  at  a  bargain,  but  he  was  not  sure 
whether  Millerand's  cheque  had  not  been  dearly 
bought  at  the  price  of  Sophy's  coming  to  Evol. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  213 

For  when  the  agreement  had  been  signed  and  the 
royalty  advance  paid  down  (Sophy  taking  French 
leave  to  negotiate  on  a  sounder  basis  than  parting 
with  his  copyright),  and  when  further  tentative  and 
delicate  overtures  for  the  production  of  Clair  de  Lune 
had  been  carried  as  far  as  the  high  contracting  parties 
(Sophy  and  Millerand)  considered  mutually  safe  (in 
view  of  their  both  being  such  extremely  downy  birds, 
and  Evelyn  so  shy),  Sophy  had  simply  packed  a 
suitcase  and  come  off  without  reflection  or  delay. 
"I  just  had  to  see  you,"  she  explained,  fondling  Eve- 
lyn's hair.  The  very  force  and  na'ivet6  of  her  love, 
together  with  his  own  guiltlessness,  saved  Evelyn 
from  discomfort.  She  made  him  feel  sad  and  occas- 
ionally silly  but  never  awkward.  He  was  at  ease 
with  her  as  he  had  never  been  with  Kitty;  and  his 
honest  distress  was  shot  with  an  irrepressible  thrill 
of  gratified  vanity,  for  Sophy,  even  though  when  ex- 
cited she  sometimes  lapsed  from  the  King's  English, 
was  not  one  of  those  women  who  weary  men  to  whom 
they  drop  the  handkerchief.  And  yet  what  was  he 
to  do  with  her?  For  he  did  not  love  her. 

No,  he  did  not  love  her:  all  her  young  slenderness 
and  grace  were  at  his  mercy,  yet  neither  her  beauty 
nor  her  love  quickened  in  him  one  pulse  of  desire. 
Indeed  what  she  did  rouse  when  she  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck  was  the  protective  instinct.  Vainly 
his  mind  argued  that  a  girl  like  Sophy  could  not 
desire  protection  and  would  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it;  instinct,  deeper  than  reason,  pierced  to  a 
purity  of  spirit  that  does  sometimes  underlie  irregu- 
larity of  life.  Doubtless  Sophy  would  not  have  put  up 
any  defence  against  him,  and  yet  her  embrace  felt 


214  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

half  maternal  and  more  than  half  innocent.  But  all 
the  more  for  that,  if  he  did  not  intend  to  profit  by  it, 
her  presence  at  Evol  was  a  mad  indiscretion  and  a 
gratuitous  insult  to  his  wife.  When  he  remembered 
the  pledges  that  he  had  given  to  George  Dent,  Evelyn's 
face  grew  hot.  Yet  he  could  not  turn  her  out  into 
the  night!  He  was  guiltless  to  the  point  of  fatuity, 
but  that  would  not  save  him  from  being  ludicrously 
compromised  if  any  hint  of  Sophy's  presence  got 
about. 

Sophy  herself  tackled  the  knot.  She  lit  a  cigarette 
and  sat  back  in  her  chair,  one  knee  swinging  over 
the  other,  her  narrow  ivory  hands  folded  idle  in 
her  lap.  ''Well,  Charles,  what  are  you  in  such  a 
brown  study  for?  Bothering  about  me,  eh?"  She 
blew  out  a  mouthful  of  smoke.  "I  never  ought  to 
have  come,  ought  I?  And  the  worst  of  it  is  I'm  not 
a  bit  sorry!  I  just  had  to  come.  But  I'll  go  to-mor- 
row if  you  like.  'Can't  very  well  go  to-night." 

"This  place  is  so  awfully  rough  for  a  lady,"  Evelyn 
apologised.  He  felt  rude  and  ungrateful  and  not  a 
little  absurd.  How  forcibly  Meredith  would  have 
handled  such  a  situation!  "If  I'd  only  known  you 
were  coming — !" 

"Ah!  what  then?"  said  Sophy.  She  laughed. 
"Never  mind  what  then.  That's  one  of  those  incon- 
venient questions  that  sensible  fellows  like  me  never 
ask.  But  you  are  a  queer  chap,  aren't  you  now? 
It's  a  case  of  Get-thee-behind-me,  isn't  it?  Don't  you 
worry,  because  it  doesn't  worry  me,  I  rather  like  it. 
'Makes  you  seem  so  different  from  all  the  others. 
Only  I  should  rather  like  to  know  why.  Have  you 
got  dandy  moral  principles?" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  215 

"No!"  said  Evelyn  violently,  as  if  the  imputation 
had  been  an  insult.  Sophy  laughed  again  and  arched 
her  eyebrows  at  him,  or  rather  slanted  them :  she  had 
a  trick  of  raising  their  inner  corners  which  gave  her 
an  enigmatic,  Japanese  air. 

"Loyalty  to  your  wife  then?  But  that's  queer  too! 
Most  men  don't  care  a  hang:  so  long  as  their  wives 
don't  know." 

Evelyn  wondered  whether  most  men  would  have 
let  Sophy  speak  to  them  of  their  wives.  But  he  was 
not  offended — a  result  no  doubt  of  his  want  of  moral 
principle.  "No,  it  isn't  that  either.  There's  no  credit 
in  it,  dear.  It's  a — a  temperamental  idiosyncracy." 
As  he  said  it  he  realised  that  he  had  never  before  put 
his  scruples  into  form.  Doing  so  was  a  relief :  though 
he  knew  not  why. 

"Lovely  long  words,"  murmured  Sophy.  "But  I 
do  understand.  You're  not  keen  on  women,  are 
you?  worse  luck  for  us  when  we're  donkeys  enough 
to  be  keen  on  you!  Never  mind.  Only  you  must 
give  me  houseroom  for  to-night — anything  will  do, 
I'm  not  faddy;  when  I  was  in  Paris  after  maman 
died,  and  had  nowhere  to  go,  our  old  concierge  and 
his  wife  took  me  in  and  we  all  three  shared  one  room 
for  a  long  time.  They  were  on  one  side  of  a  curtain 
and  I  was  on  the  other.  It  didn't  worry  me,  except 
that  he  used  to  spit  a  good  deal  in  the  early  mornings. 
But  you  don't  spit,  do  you?  You're  very  refined." 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,"  said  Evelyn  humbly.  "I 
can't  help  it." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  any  different  from  what 
you  are.  .  .  .  It's  all  right,  I'll  move  on  to-morrow, 
honour  bright  I  will !  Not  but  what  I  do  wish  you'd 


216  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

let  me  stay  a  day  or  two.  No  one  would  be  a  penny 
the  worse  or  the  wiser;  and  perhaps  I  shall  never  see 
you  again." 

"I'd  like  you  to  stay  a  month,"  said  Evelyn  with 
difficulty.  "You  never  get  in  my  way ;  and  you  could 
do  my  cooking  too,  which  would  save  me  no  end 
of  trouble !  It  would  be  jolly  to  have  some  soup  again, 
and  tarts  and  other  puddings  besides  tapioca  and 
rice.  But  all  the  same  I  can't  keep  you,  Sophy.  You'll 
have  to  go :  not  to-morrow,  because  you  can't  walk  all 
the  way  to  Ria,  but  the  day  after,  Saturday,  when 
they  bring  up  my  week's  rations.  You'll  have  to  go 
back  in  the  carrier's  cart,  I'm  so  sorry,  dear!  But 
George  Dent's  still  at  Perpignan,  and — and  my  wife's 
with  him."  Sophy  uttered  a  small  "Oh!"  of  pro- 
found amazement  and  dismay.  "He  came  here  last 
night  and  went  away  again  this  morning  early.  Odd, 
isn't  it,  two  people  turning  up  within  twenty-four 
hours  when  I  haven't  seen  a  soul  for  a  year?  but 
that's  the  way  things  always  happen.  And  of  course 
it  would  be  safe  to  happen  directly  I  came  to  life 
again.  By  the  way,  I'm  rather  curious  to  find  out  how 
they  got  my  address.  You  haven't  betrayed  it,  have 
you?"  She  shook  her  head.  "Not  by  accident?  No, 
I  never  thought  you  would.  You're  sure  Millerand 
never  had  it?" 

"Certain  sure.  Why,  it  was  only  yesterday  he  was 
at  me  for  it!  I  stayed  three  days  in  Paris  on  my 
way  out  on  purpose  to  see  him  about  you  and  CMr  de 
Lune,  and  he  was  as  keen  as  mustard,  trying  all  dodges 
to  get  it  out  of  me :  said  people  had  been  asking  him 
for  it,  and  anyway  he  preferred  to  deal  with  his 
principal  direct:  you  bet  he  does — he  knows  I'm  a 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  217 

better  man  of  business  than  you  are!  No,  wherever 
Mr.  Dent  got  it,  it  wasn't  out  of  Millerand.  No,  and 
I  don't  think  it  could  have  been  out  of  me  at  all, 
because  no  one's  ever  connected  me  with  you — why 
should  they?  No  one's  ever  asked  me  for  it  except 
Millerand,  and  once,  ages  ago,  Edmund  Meredith :  and 
I  told  him  I  didn't  know  any  more  than  the  man 
in  the  moon,  because  that  was  soon  after  you  went 
and  you  hadn't  written  to  me  then." 

Evelyn  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  a  second  cigarette. 
He  laid  it  down.  "Meredith  asked  for  my  address 
soon  after  I  left?  Why — why  should  He  think  you 
knew  it?" 

"He  was  always  kidding  me  about  you,"  Sophy 
explained.  Her  voice  was  unresentful.  "Pretending 
to  believe.  .  .  .  But  he  didn't,  not  really — that's  only 
Edmund's  chaff.  Anyhow  I  soon  let  him  see  I  hadn't 
it.  I  let  him  see  I  wished  I  had." 

"Suppose  by  any  odd  chance  he  found  out  recently, 
from  Millerand,  that  you  had  it  now:  suppose  he 
was  the  'people'  that  Millerand  said  had  been  bother- 
ing him :  if  he  came  round  for  it  to  Chelsea  after 
you  left,  could  he  have  got  it  from  Fifine?" 

"How  should  she  know  it?  I  never  told  her,  nor 
I  never  left  your  letters  lying  about.  I  always  carried 
them — on  me,"  she  blushed,  and  Evelyn  glanced  away. 

"The  label  on  your  suitcase?" 

"It  was  only  labelled  to  an  hotel  in  Paris.  You 
can't  register  through  from  London  to  any  place 
south  of  Paris  on  the  Midi  line ;  you  can  on  some  lines 
but  not  on  that  one.  No,  the  only  address  Fifine 
had  was  Poste  Kestante,  Perpignan,  for  my  own 
letters.  I  was  jolly  careful  not  to  let  slip  anything 


218  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

about  Evol.  I  don't  see  how  he  could  have  got  it: 
unless — "  Her  face  changed  swiftly. 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless  he  went  and  rummaged  in  my  bureau  and 
found  that  letter  I  wrote  you  and  never  posted.  Lord ! 
it  was  silly  of  me  to  leave  it  there.  I  never  thought 
of  that!" 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  leave  it  when  you  were 
coming  out  here  in  person?  Why  didn't  you  tear 
it  up?" 

"Because  it  had  a  clean  stamp  on  and  I  meant 
to  take  it  off  with  hot  water  when  I  got  home."  Eve- 
lyn opened  his  eyes.  If  he  had  been  reduced  to  his  last 
sou  he  would  not  have  preserved  an  old  envelope  for 
the  sake  of  steaming  off  a  threepenny  stamp.  "I  hate 
wasting  stamps,"  said  Sophy  defiantly,  scenting  de- 
rision. "Everybody's  got  their  pet  economy,  and 
stamps  are  mine.  It's  not  as  if  there'd  been  any 
danger,  that  I  could  see.  How  should  anyone  come 
to  me  for  your  address?  No  one  knew  I  had  it  ex- 
cept Millerand,  and  he  wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that. 
But  Edmund  might." 

"Rummage  in  your  desk  and  read  your  letters  ?  No, 
Sophy!" 

She  nodded.  "Not  read  it :  but  read  the  envelope, 
oh  yes.  And  Fifine  would  let  him.  She's  been  with 
me  for  years.  She  knows.  WThen  you've  been  .  .  . 
like  that  .  .  .  with  a  man,  you  don't  seem  to  care 
much  what  he  does,  any  more  than  if  it  were  his  wife's 
desk."  But  nothing  on  earth  would  have  induced 
Evelyn  to  open  one  of  Kitty's  drawers,  and  his  face 
was  as  usual  the  candid  index  of  his  thoughts.  "Oh ! 
well,  perhaps  you  wouldn't  do  it,"  Sophy  conceded 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  219 

with  a  faint  shrug.  "But  that's  your  dandy  prin- 
ciples again.  Edmund  knows  better." 

Evelyn  picked  up  his  cigarette,  lit  it,  and  smoked 
for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  He  knew  that  Meredith 
had  gone  to  Millerand  for  his  address,  and  the  two 
were  old  cronies:  what  more  likely  than  that  Mere- 
dith should  have  wormed  out  of  Millerand  the  sex 
and  name  of  Evelyn's  London  agent?  In  the  twink- 
ling eyes  of  that  stout  and  genial  cynic  of  the  Boule- 
vards, such  a  mystery  would  have  been  a  true  Poli- 
chinelle's  secret.  Then  Meredith  would  have  tried 
on  Sophy,  or,  failing  Sophy,  on  Josephine,  every  wile 
of  which  he  was  master.  But  he  never  would  have 
gone  the  length  of  searching  Sophy's  bureau.  If  it 
really  was  in  Sophy's  flat  that  he  had  found  his  clue, 
it  could  only  have  been  by  some  unlucky  fluke:  and 
gently  Evelyn  reflected  that  after  such  a  life  as  she 
had  led  one  must  not  blame  poor  Sophy  if  sometimes 
she  failed  to  distinguish  between  what  men  do  and 
what  they  don't  do.  He  looked  up  and  found  Sophy's 
eyes  on  him,  mournfully  amused. 

"No,  I  don't  do  Edmund  justice,  do  I?  He's  really 
no  end  honourable  and  straight.  .  .  .  Say,  Charles, 
Mrs.  Evelyn  oughtn't  to  let  you  go  round  by  your- 
self. I  wouldn't  if  I  were  your  wife.  .  .  .  Read  what 
you're  thinking?  of  course  I  can!  It's  my  trade  to 
read  men's  faces,  at  least  it  used  to  be,  and  that's  not 
the  sort  of  trade  one  forgets.  I'm  always  doing  it. 
I  do  it  in  trains  and  trams  and  any  old  where,  some- 
times I  wish  I  could  stop  doing  it  but  I  can't  It's 
just  as  if  people  were  made  of  glass.  Lord,  I  do 
get  so  tired  of  seeing  inside  them!  and  always  the 
same  old  thing,  at  least  when  they  look  at  me.  Not 


220  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

you.  You're  different.  That's  why  I  liked  you  all 
along."  She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him — and  then 
^et  them  fall  again.  "No — sit  where  you  are."  She 
rose  herself  and  went  to  the  window,  propping  her 
elbows  on  its  high  sill  and  her  chin  on  her  doubled 
fists.  "Don't  come  any  nearer.  Oh,  what  shiny 
stars!  Say,  Charles:  I  don't  want  to  bore  you,  but 
I'd  like  you  to  know  it  wasn't  altogether  my  fault  the 
first  time.  Oh,  we  always  say  that !  But  it  was  true 
of  me:  it  often  is  true.  D'you  mind  listening?" 

"Go  on,  dear:  tell  me  all  you  will." 

"He  said  he'd  marry  me.  I  was  only  seventeen, 
and — he  really  was  the  first:  though  of  course  he 
didn't  believe  that,  because  I  was  only  a  model,  a 
bit  of  Paris  mud.  I  dare  say  he  thought  he  was  about 
the  twenty-first.  But  he  wasn't.  You  see  my  father 
was  an  officer  in  the  Royal  Navy,  and  my  mother — 
well,  she  wasn't  exactly  married  to  him,  but  it  was 
as  good  as  a  marriage  to  her.  After  he  died  she  kept 
a  pension,  not  much  of  a  place  it  wasn't,  I  mean  not 
a  swell  place,  but  perfectly  respectable — she  was  most 
particular  about  that.  It  wasn't  till  after  she  died 
too,  and  the  place  was  sold,  and  most  of  the  money 
seemed  to  get  muddled  away,  it  was  then  I  got  into 
such  low  water  and  began  sitting  for  Tennant.  Mad- 
ame Bigorre,  that  was  our  old  concierge's  wife  that 
took  me  in,  her  sister  used  to  do  Tennant's  charring, 
and  she  put  me  up  to  it.  ...  Well,  how  could  he 
tell?  A  figure  model!  Of  course  some  of  them  do 
keep  respectable,  but  that's  what  Englishmen  never 
seem  to  understand.  Oh,  there  were  a  lot  of  excuses 
to  be  made  for  him!  But  still  he  didn't  ought— he 
ought  not  to  have  said  he'd  marry  me.  But  Meredith 


CLAIR  BE  LUNE  221 

is  like  that,  you  can't  trust  him  when  it's  a  woman. 
Poor  devil !  he's  paying  for  it  now." 

Evelyn  remained  very  still.  He  was  recalling  a 
conversation  of  more  than  eighteen  months  ago  in 
Meredith's  rooms.  "I  could  name  you  half  a  dozen 
men  who  were  her  lovers  in  Paris.  .  .  ."  Perhaps 
after  all  Meredith  really  had  bribed  Josephine  and 
ransacked  Sophy's  bureau!  To  take  advantage  of 
Sophy's  friendless  youth  was,  even  in  Evelyn's  eyes, 
a  cruel  but  not  an  uncommon  misdeed,  but  to  pelt 
her  with  mud  afterwards  was  one  that  he  shrank  from 
characterising,  since  Meredith  had  been  his  friend. 
And  now  he  was  at  Perpignan  with  Kitty!  True, 
he  had  not  betrayed  Evelyn,  for  Dent  evidently  had 
not  heard  that  Evelyn  was  in  communication  with 
Sophy — and  fleetingly  Evelyn  wondered  what  would 
have  happened  if  he  had ;  but  perhaps  Meredith  was 
only  holding  that  weapon  in  reserve.  If  he  struck 
with  it  ...  and  if  it  brought  Dent  again  to  Evol 
...  it  crossed  Evelyn's  mind  to  wish  the  carrier's 
cart  came  on  a  Friday. 

"Sophy,"  said  Evelyn  after  a  long  silence,  "I  don't 
want  to  hear  anything  that  Meredith  said  to  you  in 
confidence,  but  if  it's  only  your  own  intuition  I  should 
like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  'paying  for  it  now.'  " 

"He's  in  love  with  a  woman  that  won't  look  at  him : 
at  least  I  don't  think  she  will."  Evelyn  shifted  in 
his  chair.  "She's  not  happy ;  she's  living  apart  from 
her  husband,  and  Meredith  wants  to  profit  by  it. 
But  he  won't:  not  unless  she  goes  reckless  and  picks 
him  up  as  you'd  pick  up  a  dagger.  That's  all  he 
would  ever  be  to  her." 

"She  never  would  d«o  that." 


222  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

"She?    Who?" 

"My  wife." 

"We  don't  want  to  talk  of  her,"  said  Sophy  on  a 
dropped  breath.  "Men  always  draw  the  line  at  that." 

"Ah !  but  I'm  not  much  good  at  drawing  lines." 

"You  did  in  Chelsea." 

"Did  that  hurt?  It  wasn't  so  meant.  It  is  an  in- 
stinct with  me  to  keep  places  and  people  to  myself ; 
I  hated  George  Dent's  coming  here,  though  I'm  very 
fond  of  him.  I  would  most  gladly  have  introduced 
my  wife  to  you  if  it  had  occurred  to  me  that  you 
would  care  to  know  her,  but  it  didn't.  I'm  very  sorry." 
Sophy  bent  down  her  head  and  furtively  brushed  her 
wrist  across  her  eyelashes.  This  tender  unworldly 
kindness  was  not  what  she  had  come  to  find  at  6vol, 
but  it  was  inexpressibly  sweet  to  her,  sweeter  far  than 
passion.  "Are  you  under  the  impression  that  I  don't 
respect  you  because  in  the  days  of  your  forlorn  youth 
you  went  astray?  All  the  more  reason  why  the  women 
who  never  have  been  tempted  should  hold  out  a  help- 
ing hand  to  you.  My  wife  would.  One  can't  answer 
for  outsiders,  but  I  can  for  her  as  I  can  for  myself, 
and  if  I  were  living  with  her  I'd  take  you  to  her  now. 
But  she  has  left  me,  as  you  know.  Now  tell  me  more 
about  Meredith.  You  say  he's  still  in  love  with  her, 
and  she  has  no  protection.  What's  he  after?" 

"After  her,  of  course.  Meredith  never  lets  go.  He 
counts  either  on  your  doing  something  silly  and  giving 
her  a  chance  to  divorce  you,  or  else  on  her  getting 
so  sick  of  it  all  that  she'll  do  anything  to  make  you 
divorce  her.  Meredith  wouldn't  mind  being  used  as  a 
dagger.  He  doesn't  care  how  he  gets  a  woman.  He 
knows,  once  you've  got  her,  you  can  suit  yourself." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  223 

Evelyn  smiled.  "He  had  better  not  try  that  on 
with  Kitty." 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand,"  said  Sophy  wearily. 
"When  we're  once  in  the  same  boat  there's  not  a 
pin  to  choose  between  us,  or  rather  it's  the  nicest 
women  that  come  off  worst  because  they  suffer  most. 
Of  course  Mrs.  Evelyn's  not  like  me.  Sorry,  that's 
trite,  isn't  it?  If  you  were  like  most  men,  wouldn't 
you  curse  me  for  saying  it!  but  what  I  mean  is,  she 
looks  as  if  she  could  put  up  a  stiffer  fight  than  most 
women  can.  She's  got  such  a  way  with  her!  Still, 
if  Edmund's  on  the  warpath,  you  ought  to  be  looking 
after  her,  Charles.  I  was  so  glad,  when  I  heard  her 
call  you  Eve,  that  I'd  always  called  you  Charles." 
This  conclusion  was  unforeseen  and  reduced  Evelyn 
to  silence. 

Sophy  took  pity  on  him  and  gathered  up  her  gloves 
and  veil.  "Look  here,  I'm  dog  tired,  and  I'd  like  to 
go  to  bed  now,  please.  Is  there  any  other  room  or 
shall  I  curl  up  with  a  pillow  on  the  floor?" 

"There's  the  room  Dent  slept  in  last  night.  It's 
wretchedly  inconvenient  and  crowded  up  with  furni- 
ture, but  he  managed  somehow." 

"So  long  as  there  are  no  fleas  I  don't  care,"  replied 
Miss  Carter  composedly.  "And  there  won't  be,  if 
you've  lived  here  for  a  twelvemonth.  Last  night  I 
caught  five  running.  That's  the  worst  of  these  half- 
Spanish  places!  When  they  turn  up  in  full  force 
Keating's  isn't  any  good.  Still  they're  not  so  bad 
as  bugs;  we  had  bugs  in  Paris." 

Evelyn  ushered  her  upstairs ;  and  strange  it  seemed 
to  him  to  have  to  perform  the  same  offices  for  her  as 
for  George  Dent  the  night  before — not  entirely  the 


224  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

same  however,  because  Sophy  made  her  own  bed, 
fingering  the  cold  linen  sheets  with  an  appreciative 
hand,  and  sniffing  at  her  pillowcase,  which  Madame 
Blanc  had  laid  away  in  sprigs  of  wild  hill  lavender. 
When  the  big  untidy  room  was  made  as  fresh  and  neat 
as  it  could  be,  Sophy  of  her  own  accord  came  to  Evelyn 
and  pushed  him  gently  through  the  doorway.  "Good 
night,  Charles,  old  fellow.  Pleasant  dreams!" 

"I  never  dream." 

"Don't  you?  I  do  like  billy-ho,  especially  if  I  have 
my  supper  late.  So  if  I  sing  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  you'll  know  what's  up.  Where  d'you  sleep? 
Near  enough  to  hear  me  if  I  called  you?" 

"Here's  my  door." 

"Oh,  only  just  across  the  landing?  I'm  glad.  This 
room  is  so  big  and  so  full  of  furniture  to  go  to  bed  in 
with  nothing  but  a  candle.  Say,  you  might  whistle 
while  you're  undressing,  it'll  cheer  me  up  to  hear 
you.  Well,  good  night  again,  positively  the  last  ap- 
pearance." She  threw  her  arms  round  him  and  drew 
down  his  head.  "Kiss  me.  Oh  God,  I  wish  it  didn't 
hurt  so!" 

He  kissed  her. 

"There!  clear  out,"  said  Sophy,  pushing  him  to- 
wards his  own  door.  "Never  you  mind,  it  does  hurt, 
but  oh,  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you  for  being  good !" 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  the  cool  of  that  evening  when  Sophy  canle  to 
£vol,  while  out  of  the  mountains  the  tramontane 
blew  down  into  Perpignan  and  stirred  the  dense 
Southern  dust  in  the  streets  of  the  little  Southern 
town,  Meredith  had  gone  out  with  Kitty  for  a  stroll 
among  the  neighbouring  vineyards.  The  grapes  were 
not  ripe  yet,  their  clusters  hung  green  among  their 
green  and  golden  foliage,  and  forsaking  the  highway 
Meredith  and  Kitty  wandered  in  among  their  un- 
guarded furrows,  over  which  a  faint  sweet  scent  hung 
like  the  scent  of  wine.  Isolated  like  a  city  on  a 
marsh,  the  eyeless  walls  and  towers  of  Perpignan  rose 
white  and  golden  out  of  this  leafy  sea,  and  all  round 
them  the  plains  of  Southern  France  stretched  away 
illimitable  under  a  blue  evening  sky,  except  on  the 
south,  where  in  cliff  and  cape  those  wild  half-Spanish 
mountains  lay  unfeatured  and  faint  as  a  cloud,  stain- 
ing, in  their  wan  transparency  of  lilac  shadow,  the 
low  air  thick  with  sunset  light  and  flushed  like  a 
fcweetpea. 

In  the  open  vine-fields  the  heat  was  still  heavy, 
the  soil  was  burnt  dry  with  it  and  struck  warm  under- 
foot. But  there  was  a  cooler  air  in  the  clear-obscure 
of  the  olive  groves  beyond,  where  the  long  rays  that 
slanted  between  the  dark  twisted  branches  fell  dimmed 
and  silver-pale  through  clouds  of  thin  leafage  so  fine 
as  to  be  transparent,  every  narrow  leaf  under-glossed 
with  silver,  every  point  a  star  of  silver  fire.  At  the 

225 


226  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

foot  of  a  tree  fantastically  coiled  on  its  own  waist 
like  a  dragon  crawling  out  of  a  cave,  near  a  shallow 
brook  whose  fleet  waters  washed  through  stems  of 
scented  watennint  and  carried  away  the  scarlet  petals 
of  a  wild  japonica,  Kitty  sat  down  on  a  patch  of 
turf,  while  Meredith,  standing,  lit  a  cigar  and  kept  an 
eye  on  the  road  by  which  they  expected  Dent  to  follow 
them.  At  a  distance  of  half  a  kilometre  it  would  not 
be  difficult  to  recognise  the  thickset,  well-drilled  fig- 
ure and  English  country  clothes.  The  evening  train 
from  Ria  was  already  due  and  overdue,  it  would  not 
be  long  now  before  they  learnt  whether  Kitty's  olive- 
branch  had  been  accepted  or  rejected — always  sup- 
posing it  had  ever  been  offered. 

Meredith's  own  impression  was  that  it  would  not 
have  been  offered.  He  expected  to  hear  that  Evelyn 
had  been  found  living  with  Sophy.  When  he  had 
learnt  from  Millerand  the  name  of  Evelyn's  London 
agent,  he  had  laughed,  and  Millerand  with  him,  till 
their  sides  shook.  Inconceivable,  by  these  two  cyni- 
cal wits,  the  innocence  that  had  gone  to  Sophy  as  a 
friend ! 

For  Meredith  had  always  believed  Evelyn  to  be 
Sophy's  lover.  Evelyn's  denial  had  staggered  him, 
but  only  for  a  moment ;  naturally  Evelyn,  on  the  brink 
of  matrimony,  would  deny  an  indiscretion — who 
wouldn't?  Meredith  most  certainly  would  not  have 
trusted  any  man  with  such  a  delicate  confession. 
That  the  connection  had  continued  during  Evelyn's 
married  life  seemed  to  him  improbable,  that  it  had 
ceased  when  Evelyn  vanished  he  was  certain,  for  he 
had  a  way  of  dropping  in  to  see  Sophy  now  and  again, 
and  he  had  pitied  her,  she  was  evidently  so  lonely 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  227 

and  sad;  but  when  Millerand  told  him  that  Sophy 
had  sent  him  the  Suite  in  April,  Meredith  remembered 
that  in  April  Sophy  had  suddenly  cheered  up.  That 
then  was  the  date  when  communications  were  re- 
sumed !  He  went  straight  from  Millerand  to  Chelsea, 
and  there  found  that  Miss  Carter,  that  very  day,  had 
packed  up  her  clothes  and  gone  abroad  without  leav- 
ing any  address.  His  instant  conclusion  was  that  she 
was  joining  Evelyn,  and  he  went  on  to  rummage  among 
her  papers  without  the  shadow  of  a  scruple.  Chal- 
lenged for  a  defence,  he  would  have  replied  boldly 
that  Sophy  was  more  his  property  than  Evelyn's. 
He  had  never  loved  her;  but  she  had  loved  him,  and 
had  given  herself  to  him  in  an  undefended  weakness 
which  conferred  on  him  proprietary  rights  in  her  for 
the  rest  of  her  life.  He  had  unlocked  her  bureau 
with  one  of  his  own  keys,  Josephine  standing  by  half 
scandalised  and  half  tickled,  and  had  been  immensely 
pleased  when  he  found  on  the  very  top  of  her  untidy 
pile  of  correspondence  an  envelope  addressed  to  "Mon- 
sieur Charles  Evelyn,  Hotel  d'Evol,  Kia,  Py.  O."  Just 
like  Sophy,  to  write  a  letter  and  forget  to  post  it! 
He  had  not  read  it.  He  had  meditated  doing  so, 
but — from  a  sense  of  honour — had  refrained. 

After  all  what  need  had  he  to  read  it,  when  he 
learned  from  Josephine  that  Sophy's  letters  were  to 
wait  for  her  in  Perpignan?  People  do  not  stay  at 
Perpignan  in  June!  Evidently  it  was  only  a  step- 
ping-stone to  Ria;  and  for  an  hour  Meredith  sat  idle, 
his  forehead  on  his  arm,  indulging  his  imagination  al- 
ternately in  a  vision  of  Sophy  and  Evelyn  at  JiJvol, 
and  in  more  practical  thoughts  of  what  their  sinful 
felicity  might  mean  for  him.  For  of  course  Mrs.  Eve- 


228  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

lyn  could  not  be  left  in  ignorance.  Directly  or  in- 
directly he  would  have  to  open  her  eyes  for  her,  and, 
too  bold  for  hypocrisy,  he  owned  to  himself  that 
he  would  rather  like  doing  it.  He  was  not  gratui- 
tously vindictive,  but  she  had  more  than  once  stung 
him  to  the  quick,  and  with  the  excuse  of  doing  it 
for  her  own  ultimate  happiness  he  was  not  unwilling 
to  use  the  knife. 

Still  he  was  not  anxious  to  be  associated  in  her 
memory  with  the  surgeon's  ungrateful  office,  and  for 
that  reason  he  had  not  yet  betrayed  Evelyn.  There 
would  be  time  enough  when  Dent  came  back  from 
isvol  in  redhot  indignation  to  say  "Ah,  this  is  what 
I've  been  afraid  of  all  along." 

"Who  is  Meredith?"  Wright  had  once  asked  Eve- 
lyn, and  Evelyn  had  replied  in  all  simplicity  that  he 
hadn't  the  faintest  idea.  And  yet  no  mystery  hung 
over  Meredith's  birth.  It  was  only  that  he  had 
never  seen  much  of  his  parents.  He  was  the  son 
of  a  well-to-do  Wiltshire  squire,  who  had  early  handed 
over  the  duties  of  his  estate  to  an  agent  because  they 
bored  him,  and  entered  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  Hubert 
Meredith  had  in  perfection  the  legal  mind.  He  did 
well  at  the  Bar,  took  silk  at  forty-three,  married  at 
forty-five  the  heiress  of  a  Judge,  and  so  united  two 
comfortable  incomes.  He  was  moderately  fond  of  his 
wife  and  she  of  him,  but  by  common  consent,  after 
Edmund's  birth,  they  had  no  more  children.  An  in- 
come has  to  be  very  comfortable  indeed  before  it  will 
cover  the  claims  of  half  a  dozen  growing  boys  and 
girls. 

So  the  only  child  grew  up  in  an  agreeable  freedom 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  229 

from  rivalry,  petted — in  moderation — by  his  mother, 
and  neglected  by  his  father,  whose  energy  and  ambi- 
tion were  concentrated  on  his  Chancery  work.  In 
due  course  Meredith  went  to  Sherborne  (not  Eton: 
the  K.  C.  had  been  at  Eton,  but  in  those  days  living 
was  not  so  expensive),  and  thence  to  Cambridge, 
where  a  First  in  the  Modern  Languages  Tripos  made 
his  way  superfluously  smooth  for  him  into  the  diplo- 
matic service  of  the  old  easy,  exclusive  days.  "My 
boy  has  never  given  me  a  moment's  anxiety,"  said 
the  elder  Meredith  proudly. 

Then  came  the  war,  which  cut  across  so  many  lives, 
and  Edmund  applied  for  a  commission — not  in  any 
unseemly  hurry ;  he  loathed  the  thought  of  Army  dis- 
cipline, and  it  was  late  in  1915  before  he  began  to 
feel  uncomfortable  in  civilian  attire.  Still,  once  in,  he 
did  his  duty  well.  But  he  hated  taking  an  order  and 
was  unaffectedly  glad  to  be  demobilised.  He  never  re- 
turned to  his  diplomatic  career.  His  father  had  died 
in  the  interval,  and  Edmund,  now  a  rich  man,  had 
had  enough  of  harness.  He  had  always  had  a  turn 
for  literature  and  a  taste  for  music,  and  between  the 
two  he  drifted  gradually  into  the  ranks  of  musical 
criticism ;  incurably  an  amateur,  a  dilettante,  though 
he  had  the  technique  of  both  arts  at  his  fingertips. 

He  had  been  sorry  when  his  father  died,  but  not 
too  sorry.  His  mother  was  still  alive,  a  mild  old 
lady  who  divided  her  year  between  Torquay  and  the 
Cote  d'Azur.  Every  autumn  the  Journal  de  Bordig- 
hera  chronicled  the  arrival  of  "Mrs.  Meredith  and 
Suite,"  the  suite  consisting  of  a  rather  uppish  maid 
and  a  rather  dejected  companion,  for  Mrs.  Meredith, 
though  always  placid,  was  only  just  as  kind  as  a  pan- 


230  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

oply  of  egotism  allowed.  Her  pleasant  selfishness 
became  her  as  harmoniously  as  her  jetted  dresses  and 
floating  veils  became  her  comely,  plump,  and  sedent- 
ary body.  She  was  fond  of  Edmund,  and  wrote  to 
him  every  Sunday;  but  "Your  affectionate  Mother" 
was  perfectly  satisfied  to  hear  back  once  or  twice 
a  month  from  "Yr.  affcte.  Son." 

An  ordinary  life  and  an  agreeable:  and  Meredith 
himself  would  have  been  the  last  to  complain  of 
his  lot.  Yet  there  were  two  great  agencies  whose 
operation  he  had  never  felt,  love  and  sorrow.  Begot- 
ten and  born  of  thin  emotions,  he  had  inherited  his 
father's  brain  and  his  mother's  temper,  but  the  gener- 
ation of  1890  was  not  so  tough  as  that  of  1860,  and 
Meredith  was  weaker  than  they.  Nor  was  he  stiffened 
as  they  were  by  the  Victorian  tradition  of  decency. 
It  was  their  safeguard.  Meredith  had  none.  Pleas- 
ure was  his  law  of  life :  hence  his  dealings  with  Sophy 
— which  would  have  horrified  the  K.  C.  For  all  that, 
1890  dreamed  dreams  to  which  1860  was  blind,  and 
there  were  forces  in  Meredith  that  might  have  raised 
him  above  his  parents'  level  if  his  life  had  called  them 
out.  It  had  not  done  so  yet. 

Strangely  enough,  it  had  come  nearest  to  doing  so  in 
his  pursuit  of  Kitty  Evelyn,  the  first  of  his  rather 
frequent  love  affairs  that  had  involved  him  in  a  con- 
flict of  principle.  He  was  genuinely  fond  of  Evelyn, 
within  the  rather  narrow  limits  set  by  his  vanity.  He 
cherished  for  Evelyn  the  slightly  supercilious  affec- 
tion of  the  disciplined  mind  for  the  undisciplined,  of 
the  firm,  deliberate,  and  consistent  will  for  the  will 
that  is  rarely  sure  of  its  aims  and  never  ruthless  in 
achieving  them.  It  was  because  there  had  always 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  231 

been  this  vein  of  patronage  in  his  feeling  for  Evelyn 
that  he  had  drifted  unconsciously  into  conduct  which 
ordinarily  he  would  have  considered  base.  Evelyn 
really  wasn't  good  enough  for  Kitty  and  didn't  even 
appreciate  her :  who  should  blame  Meredith  for  steal- 
ing what  Evelyn  had  never  valued?  In  this  way  he 
justified  or  rather  disguised  his  treachery  in  Chelsea; 
but  he  suffered  in  it. 

Kitty  too  made  him  suffer.  In  his  earlier  love-af- 
fairs it  had  been  the  woman  who  went  to  the  wall. 
Kitty,  over  whom  he  had  no  power,  was  the  invol- 
untary avenger  of  her  sex.  She  did  not  even  enjoy 
tormenting  him  as  she  had  enjoyed  tormenting  Dims- 
dale  Smith;  Dimmie  under  the  table  was  amusing 
and  she  liked  him,  but  Meredith,  from  the  moment 
when  he  threw  off  the  mask,  ceased  to  please  her. 
Lovers  like  poets  succeed  better  in  fiction  than  in 
truth,  and  when  he  was  in  earnest  he  became  indis- 
creet and  outspoken  and  the  touch  of  his  hot  hand 
offended  her.  Still,  she  was  sorry  for  him;  and 
there  was  warmth  in  being  loved  as  he  loved  her,  after 
the  misery  of  Evelyn's  coldness. 

And  when  the  household  in  Chelsea  broke  up  it 
was  through  this  vein  of  sincerity  in  him  that  he  was 
able  to  regain  his  lost  place  in  Kitty's  friendship. 
Meredith  was  not  glad,  as  a  more  thoroughly  common 
mind  might  have  been.  He  was  profoundly  distressed : 
angry  with  Evelyn  and  grieved  for  Kitty,  and  yet 
grieved  for  Evelyn  too,  and  troubled  by  the  knowledge 
that  Evelyn  must  have  beggared  himself  to  repay  his 
debt.  It  was  an  impulse  of  which  Meredith  was  more 
than  half  ashamed,  a  piece  of  boyish  generosity,  which 
made  him  offer  to  become  the  anonymous  tenant  of 


232  CLAIK,  DE  LUNE 

Temple  Evelyn.  Mixed  motives  as  usual  came  into 
play,  for  at  Temple  Evelyn  he  would  be  close  to  the 
Manor  Farm,  but  it  was  a  wise  philosopher  who  said 
that  we  are  entitled  to  be  judged  by  the  best  of  our 
determining  motives,  and  Meredith  would  have  done 
it  in  any  event  for  Evelyn's  sake. 

Mixed  motives  then  took  him  to  Temple  Evelyn, 
but  gradually,  when  no  news  came,  the  ties  of  friend- 
ship began  to  weaken.  What  had  happened  between 
husband  and  wife  he  knew  no  more  than  Dent  did, 
but,  like  Dent,  he  thought  that  nothing  could  condone 
Evelyn's  flight.  He  saw  Kitty  solitary  and  passion- 
ately unhappy,  deserted  and  without  protection — free 
then,  or  in  a  fair  way  to  be  free  to  reshape  her  life, 
miraculously  placed  within  his  reach  again  when  he 
had  believed  her  lost  to  him  for  ever;  and  now  came 
the  last  turn  of  the  wheel,  when  this  man,  who  had 
not  cared  seriously  for  a  woman  since  his  boyhood, 
found  out  that  the  luxury  and  distinction  which  he 
had  prized  so  highly  would  be  dust  and  ashes  if  he 
could  not  soon  or  late  win  her  for  his  wife.  At  once 
his  manner  changed,  and  the  lover  whom  Kitty  had 
pitied  and  disliked  was  transformed  into  a  friend  in 
whom  she  could  find  no  fault.  There  was  much  that 
was  chivalrous  in  his  feeling  for  her  now,  and,  since 
he  hoped  to  marry  her,  it  was  entirely  respectful,  for 
his  egoism  came  to  her  aid,  throwing  over  her  the 
shield  of  his  self-love.  The  woman  who  was  to  become 
his  wife  must  be  untouched  by  suspicion.  During 
the  twelve  months  of  his  stay  at  Temple  Evelyn — 
and  towards  the  end  of  the  time  he  was  meeting  her 
every  day — he  had  not  once  reminded  her  of  the  scene 
in  Chelsea, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  233 

Kitty  supposed  him  cured.  When  he  offered  his  serv- 
ices as  courier  she  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment; 
the  long  journey  frightened  her,  George  Dent  was 
openly  relieved,  and  it  would  have  been  ungracious 
to  refuse.  For  Meredith  knew  the  Continent  from 
Astrakhan  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  and  time  tables 
had  no  terrors  for  him ;  his  French  was  cosmopolitan 
and  he  had  enough  Spanish  to  make  a  guess  at  Cata- 
lan; porters  fawned  on  him,  and  even  the  Parisian 
taxi-driver  subsided  into  moderation  under  that  cold 
blue  stare.  So  Meredith  and  Kitty  and  George  Dent 
came  out  to  Perpignan  together. 

But  Meredith  was  only  biding  his  time  to  strike, 
and  when  Dent  returned  from  Eia  his  chance  came 
and  he  took  it. 

"There  comes  George's  train,"  said  Meredith. 
Along  the  branch  line  from  Perpignan  to  Villef ranche 
trains  were  not  so  frequent  as  to  admit  of  a  mistake. 
"Twenty  minutes  behind  time  as  usual.  These  French 
railways  are  a  disgrace.  They  want  a  few  good  Eng- 
lish managers  at  the  head  of  them.  Hallo !" 

"What,  then?" 

"The  most  beautiful  butterfly  in  all  the  world  has 
settled  on  your  hat.  'Knows  a  good  thing  when  he 
sees  it,  ce  Monsieur-la."  Kitty  bowed  her  head  and  the 
butterfly,  drowsy  after  day-long  sunshine,  fluttered 
languidly  off  to  a  stalk  of  yellow  mullein  and  sat 
there  waving  its  orient  wings.  Heavy  they  were  and 
thick  with  iridescent  down,  flashing  prismatically 
from  grass-green  through  gold  into  flame;  their  last 
gleam  before  they  furled  was  red  as  a  winter  sunset. 
Kitty's  face  lit  up  but  she  crushed  her  hands  together 


234  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

as  if  to  repress  the  elan  of  pleasure.  "How  Eve  would 
love  that!" 

Meredith  started.  Since  leaving  Chelsea  she  had 
not  often  of  her  own  free  will  pronounced  Evelyn's 
name.  "So  he  would,"  Meredith  agreed  tonelessly. 
"He  was  fond  of  pretty  things." 

"It's  so  strange  to  know  that  he's  only  a  few  miles 
away:  watching  the  same  sunset,  from  those  very 
hills  that  I  can  see.  George  might  even  bring  him 
back  with  him;  there,  the  train's  stopped — perhaps 
he's  just  getting  out  on  the  platform — coming  through 
the  Sortie.  Now  George  is  looking  for  Bartolome, 
and  Bartolome's  telling  him  where  I  am.  They  would 
be  sure  to  follow  us,  wouldn't  they?  Eve  would  travel 
light,  or  if  he  had  any  luggage  Bartolome  could  take 
it  to  the  hotel." 

Meredith  occupied  himself  with  his  cigar.  He 
could  not  trust  his  voice  to  answer  her.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  Kitty  had  taken  off  her  delicate  but 
impenetrable  mask,  and  his  own  handsome  face,  gener- 
ally immovable  in  cold  good  temper,  betrayed  strain 
in  a  deepening  of  the  lines  from  nostril  to  jaw,  for 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  endure  unexpected  stab 
after  stab  without  flinching,  and  he  was  taken  by 
surprise;  he  had  hoped  and  latterly  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  feel  certain  that  pride  had  worn  down 
Kitty's  love  during  a  twelvemonth  of  desertion,  but 
here  was  love  undying  and  as  fresh  as  ever!  Love 
and  sorrow,  Evelyn's  wedding  gift.  .  .  .  Meredith  had 
already  acquired  generosity  enough  to  forget  his  own 
disappointment  in  painful  anger. 

Kitty  scarcely  noticed  his  silence.  She  was  entirely 
off  her  guard,  every  faculty  absorbed  in  suspense. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  235 

"I  ought  never  to  have  left  him,"  she  went  on,  more  to 
herself  than  to  Meredith.  "It  has  been  my  fault — 
far,  far  more  mine  than  his.  One  does  things  in  a 
blind  hurry,  because  one's  life  seems  suddenly  to  be- 
come intolerable,  as  if  one  had  come  to  the  very  end, 
but  there  is  no  end,  only  an  anti-climax.  One  lives 
on,  and  turn  after  turn  of  the  road  opens  out  as  one 
grows  older.  I  see  it  all  differently  now.  I  ought 
to  have  stayed.  I  hated  hurting  him.  But  that 
was  cowardly  too." 

Meredith  blew  out  a  mouthful  of  smoke  and  watched 
it  slowly  dissolve  away  amid  their  canopy  of  pointed 
olive  leaves.  "Since  none  of  us  asked  to  be  born," 
he  said  with  deliberation,  "I  am  of  opinion  that  when 
the  conditions  of  life  become  intolerable  one  is  en- 
titled to  change  them.  Necessity  knows  no  law." 

"Necessity  is  the  cloak  that  we  invent  to  cover 
cowardice." 

"You're  in  a  very  epigrammatic  mood  tonight,  my 
dear  friend." 

There  was  effort  in  his  voice,  but  in  her  deep  pre- 
occupation Kitty,  so  sensitive  as  a  rule,  was  blind  and 
deaf  to  it.  "Don't  scold  me!  It's  a  first  offence." 

"No,  no,"  said  Meredith  smiling.  "You  have  a 
diamond  wit." 

"And  you  like  me  on  condition  that  I  never  wear  it. 
Be  at  ease !  I'm  only  clever  by  inadvertence." 

"Like  you,  do  I?  Yes,  even  when  you're  absent- 
minded,"  Meredith  murmured.  "...  But  you're 
too  stern ;  you're  a  Stoic.  Or  is  it  that  you  pre-sup- 
pose  a  religious  contract?" 

"Between  us  and  God?"  said  Kitty  with  a  curl  of 
the  lip.  "No,  there's  no  contract.  There's  no  free- 


236  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

dom.  One  obeys  because  it  is  His  will,  and  when  His 
hand  is  heavy  one  can  only  go  on  obeying.  He's  our 
only  true  necessity.  That's  my  creed.  I  didn't  get 
it  out  of  a  book." 

Meredith  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  "Well, 
now's  your  chance  to  practise  it."  She  had  hurt  him 
so  cruelly  that  he  was  more  than  half  glad  to  hurt  her, 
but  he  had  the  grace  not  to  watch  her.  "Here  comes 
Dent,  and  alone." 

He  waved  to  Dent,  who  left  the  road  and  came  strid- 
ing down  a  furrow  between  the  vines,  their  green 
tendrils  catching  at  his  knees  as  he  brushed  through. 
Kitty  stood  up.  By  Dent's  dark  look  and  bent  head 
she  saw  that  he  was  bringing  bad  news,  and  her  cour- 
age steeled  itself  to  meet  it.  She  was  armed  again 
at  all  points  before  he  reached  the  stream. 

"Tired,  George?  We've  had  such  a  hot  day  here! 
Mr.  Meredith  and  I  went  out  by  tram  to  Canet  and 
sat  on  the  sands.  But  it  would  be  fresher  in  the 
mountains." 

"It  was  as  hot  as  Hades  in  the  train,"  grumbled 
Dent,  wiping  his  forehead. 

"I'll  go  back  to  the  hotel  now,"  said  Meredith. 
"I've  a  letter  I  want  to  write;  and  Dent  will  bring 
you  in,  Mrs.  Evelyn."  But  Kitty  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"No,  stay ;  George  and  I  have  no  secrets  from  you. 
Go  on,  George:  it's  understood  that  your  mission 
wasn't  a  success." 

His  feet  rather  wide  apart  and  his  hat  tipped  to 
the  back  of  his  head,  Dent  stood  digging  a  hole  in 
the  turf  with  his  walking  stick :  a  solid  English  figure, 
outraged  common  sense  in  every  line.  "Well,  I've 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  237 

seen  him.  Slept  last  night  at  his  place.  It's  an  inn 
up  in  the  mountains,  ten  miles  from  Eia  by  a  road 
one  could  hardly  drive,  and  it  took  me  hours  to  walk 
because  I  kept  on  missing  it — just  the  inn  and  nothing 
else,  not  another  house  within  sight,  not  a  shop — 
and  there  lives  my  lord,  winter  and  summer — ' 

"Alone?"  said  Meredith  in  his  colourless  voice. 

"Lord,  yes — not  a  servant  about  the  place:  does 
everything  for  himself  with  a  Primus  stove  and  a 
piano.  Works  all  day  long  at  that  rotten  opera,  never 
stops  except  to  boil  an  egg  or  knock  off  a  hymn- 
tune—" 

"A  hymn-tune!    Knock  off  a  hymn-tune?" 

"When  he  goes  stale  on  the  opera  he  knocks  off  a 
hymn  or  a  waltz  by  way  of  a  change;  that's  how  he 
came  to  write  that  Sweet  Pyrenees  you  heard,  Mere- 
dith. Suite  Pyrenean,  then,  it's  all  one.  Oh,  he's 
mad!"  Dent  burst  out  angrily.  "Mad  as  a  hatter. 
There  are  lots  of  Johnnies  boxed  up  in  an  asylum 
that  aren't  half  so  mad  as  Eve." 

"But  what  does  he  do  for  food,"  asked  Kitty,  "if 
there  aren't  any  shops?" 

"There's  a  farm  two  miles  off  that  he  can  get  eggs 
and  butter  from,  and  the  rest  of  the  vivers  come  up 
from  Eia  once  a  week.  You  needn't  get  anxious,  my 
girl,  he's  not  starving!  On  the  contrary,  he  looks 
better  than  I've  ever  seen  him ;  more  flesh  on  him, 
and  a  better  colour  than  he  used  to  be.  /  can't  think 
how  he  stands  it !  I'm  not  faddy,  but  the  loneliness 
of  that  place  would  get  on  my  nerves.  He  doesn't 
even  lock  up  at  night!  Shuts  the  shutters  because 
tlio  chancy  of  temperature's  bad  for  his  beastly  piano 
and  goes  to  bed  with  the  door  unbarred.  Gets  his 


238  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

bath  in  a  brook — kept  that  up  all  through  the  winter, 
for  I  asked  him,  though  he  had  to  dig  a  hole  through 
the  ice  to  get  into  it.  If  it  were  anything  but  a  string 
of  cascades  it'd  be  frozen  solid.  When  he  was  at 
Temple  Evelyn  he  used  to  dust  up  the  maids  if  the 
water  wasn't  boiling.  There's  no  getting  even  with  a 
chap  like  Eve,  one  day  he  wants  a  hot  bath  in  August, 
and  the  next  he's  rolling  in  the  snow." 

"Did  he — "  Meredith  waited  a  moment,  choosing 
his  words — "did  he  seem  in  any  way  to  resent  your 
coming?" 

"  'Don't  know,  didn't  ask :  I  was  too  jolly  glad  to 
get  there.  I  tell  you,  Meredith,  it's  the  most  God- 
forsaken spot  you  ever  saw!  Red  cliffs  a  thousand 
feet  high,  zig-zagging  to  and  fro,  and  so  steep  that 
if  you  fell  over  the  parapet  you'd  never  stop  till  you 
got  to  the  bottom.  It  was  dark  before  I  reached  it 
and  I  made  sure  I  was  off  on  the  wrong  track ;  I  could 
not  believe  a  chap  like  Evelyn  would  have  stuck  it  out 
for  thirteen  months  in  a  beastly  hole  like  that." 

"Laying  himself  out  for  an  interview,"  suggested 
Meredith  smoothly.  "'Eminent  Pianist's  Mountain 
Nook,'  with  photographic  illustrations."  He  felt 
Kitty  stiffen,  and  retraced  the  false  step.  "But  of 
course  Evelyn's  always  been  incapable  of  posing." 
He  was  raging  inwardly ;  it  irked  him  to  madness  to 
have  to  apologise  to  Evelyn  under  penalty  of  offend- 
ing Evelyn's  wife. 

"And  when  is  Evelyn  coming  to  Perpignan?"  Kitty 
asked  in  her  gentle  careless  voice.  She  knew  the 
answer  beforehand  by  Dent's  voluble,  irrelevant  irri- 
tation. 

"He  won't  come,  old  girl." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  239 

"Doesn't  he  want  to  see  me  again?" 

"No ;  I  couldn't  get  him." 

"Did  you  try  hard?" 

Dent,  who  was  not  stupid,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Yes,  I  did:  very  hard.  I  said  everything  I  could 
think  of.  It  ain't  a  case  for  standing  on  one's  dignity. 
I  told  him  you  were  down  and  out  and  sorry  you'd  ever 
left  him—" 

"Oh !" 

"Well,  you  are,  aren't  you?  Hang  it,  you  did  leave 
him!  He  stuck  to  you  all  right." 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry,  and  you  did  right  to  say  so." 
Kitty's  voice  was  schooled  again  to  composure,  though 
her  cheeks  were  burning.  "I  was  just  owning  to  Mr. 
Meredith  that  after  thirteen  months  of  reflection  in 
the  wilderness  I  can  now  see  and  confess  I  was  wrong. 
Neither  Eve  nor  I  had  the  right  to  break  the  bond 
because  it  galled  us.  But  Eve  evidently  hasn't  been  in 
the  wilderness,  and  so  he  hasn't  learnt  his  lesson  yet. 
You  tell  me  he's  growing  fat!"  She  glanced  down 
at  her  own  fine  slenderness,  and  once  again,  as  the 
alteration  in  her  looks  came  freshly  home  to  him,  Mere- 
dith was  swept  by  a  rush  of  grief  and  anger.  Kitty 
had  not  grown  fat  during  those  months  of  separation. 
"He's  been  letting  out  his  coats  while  I've  been  taking 
in  my  dresses!" 

"I  didn't  tell  him  that,"  Dent  said,  digging  his  stick 
deeper  than  ever  into  the  river-side  turf,  which  now 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  undermined  by  worm- 
casts.  "I  wasn't  going  to  make  a  poor  mouth." 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by  Meredith 
in  his  most  detached  and  deliberate  tone.  "What 
time  was  it  when  you  got  to 


240  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"Between  ten  and  eleven  last  night.    Why?" 

Meredith  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Well,  one's  natur- 
ally interested  in  the  details  of  such  a  curious  house- 
hold. Was  Evelyn  in  bed?" 

"No,  he  was  smoking  a  cigarette  on  the  steps.  But 
he  was  on  his  way  to  bed.  He  goes  off  at  eleven  and 
gets  up  at  six." 

"And  did  you  get  up  at  six  too?"  Meredith  enquired. 
"I  suppose  not,  since  he  was  sufficiently  hospitable 
to  keep  you  till  the  evening  train." 

"No  fear!  I  was  shot  out  soon  after  ten  o'clock 
this  morning.  Evelyn  walked  down  with  me  to  Ria. 
I  left  by  the  middle-day  train;  but  I  stopped  to  get 
some  lunch  in  Villefranche,  and  lost  the  connection." 
Meredith  brushed  away  a  smile.  Dent,  if  he  had 
chosen,  could  have  reached  Perpignan  by  lunch-time. 
For  all  his  valiant  manner,  he  had  shirked  breaking 
the  bad  news  to  Kitty. 

"Then  you  actually  were  not  twelve  hours  in  Evol? 
You  can't  have  seen  much  of  it,  but  presumably  there 
wasn't  much  to  see.  One  knows  those  upland  metairies 
so  well,  nice  old  places,  solidly  built,  and  quite  pic- 
turesque, with  their  thick  walls  and  tiny  windows, 
but  they  haven't  many  rooms.  Did  Evelyn  show  you 
over  it?" 

"Yes — no :  there  was  nothing  to  go  over.  Livingroom 
and  kitchen  on  the  ground  floor,  and  two  bedrooms 
above.  I  had  the  back  room.  It  was  comfortable 
enough." 

"And  what  was  Evelyn's  like?  Luxurious,  I'd 
swear." 

"I  didn't  see  it,"  said  Dent  shortly.  "I  wasn't  in- 
vited to  stay  on  and  I  didn't  want  to.  Oh  Lord  yes, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  241 

we  parted  on  friendly  terms !  I  wasn't  going  to  quar- 
rel with  Eve  after  all  these  years.  But  I  was  angry. 
I  am  angry.  Not  but  what  it  was  your  fault  to  start 
with,  Kitty,  you  wrote  him  a  beastly  letter.  It  no 
longer  surprises  me  that  you  never  would  own  up  what 
was  in  it.  Just  like  a  woman!  you  punch  a  man 
under  the  belt  and  then  you  wonder  what  he's  sulking 
for.  I  should  have  sulked  if  any  woman  had  written 
me  a  letter  like  that,  she  might  have  whistled  for  me 
to  go  back  to  her.  Still  thirteen  months  is  thirteen 
months,  and  so  I  told  him." 

"What  an  impressive  argument !  And  yet  he  wasn't 
impressed?  He's  so  obstinate!" 

"Yes,  I  told  him  that  too,  that  he  was  as—" 

" — stubborn  as  Carter's  mule?  Georgy,  I  do  wish 
some  day  you  would  tell  me  who  Carter  was.  Couldn't 
you,  for  a  Christmas  present?" 

Dent  uttered  a  noise  between  a  giggle  and  a  snort — 
he  did  not  wish  to  be  amused,  but  Kitty  could  always 
make  him  laugh — and  turned,  cutting  at  the  vines  with 
his  stick.  "Well,  that's  all.  He  won't  come:  sent 
his  love  to  you,  which  I  told  him  was  dashed  impu- 
dence and  I  shouldn't  give  it  you :  and  now  I'll  go  and 
get  some  dinner.  It's  a  quarter  to  nine  and  I  want  a 
wash." 

He  swung  off,  leaving  them  to  follow  or  not  as  they 
liked.  Kitty  was  doing  so  when  Meredith  seized  her 
arm.  "Wait  one  moment,"  he  said,  with  difficulty 
controlling  his  voice.  "There's  something  I  want  to 
say  to  you.  My  turn  now." 

"Mr.  Meredith!" 

"Do  wait.  I  won't  say  anything  that  Dent  mightn't 
hear.  I'd  as  soon  speak  before  him  as  not."  He  was 


242  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

still  holding  her  arm.  Kitty  unlocked  his  fingers  and 
freed  herself  but  without  moving  away.  At  last  and 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  she  had  taken  the  measure 
of  his  passion,  and  it  frightened  her,  but  she  was 
too  proud  to  run  from  it:  though  he  was  different, 
dangerously  different  from  the  Meredith  of  Chelsea 
with  his  flushed  face  and  hot  eyes  and  fierce,  un- 
guarded manner.  He  was  cold  enough  now ;  his  hand 
was  like  ice. 

"You  can  stop  me  directly  I  offend  you,  but  if  I  do 
it  will  be  unintentional.  I  do  love  you."  It  was  evi- 
dent :  the  more  so  that  he  was  fighting  down  with  an 
iron  hand  the  agitation  that  threatened  to  overpower 
him.  "More  than  I  did  in  Chelsea.  I  must  own  to 
having  deceived  you  when  I  asked  leave  to  come  out 
to  France  as  your  friend.  I'm  not  your  friend.  But 
for  all  that,  if  there  had  been  any  prospect  of  a  re- 
conciliation with  Evelyn,  I  should  have  dropped  out 
of  your  life  without  worrying  you  again.  Now  how- 
ever it's  clear  that  there  will  be  none,  for  if  Dent 
couldn't  patch  it  up  no  one  else  ever  will  unless  you 
went  to  him  yourself,  and  you  won't  do  that — will 
you?" 

"No." 

"So  that  the  position  which  you  yourself  call  intol- 
erable will  continue  indefinitely.  What  misery  for 
you !  Married,  and  not  married :  all  your  youth  run- 
ning to  waste.  Kitty,  come  to  me!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ET  us  understand  each  other,"  said  Kitty 
soberly.  "Are  you  asking  me  to  leave  my 
husband  for  you?" 

Within  the  last  half  hour,  low  clouds  had  taken 
shape  along  the  sunset :  mountain  clouds,  faint  sculp- 
turings  of  lilac  mist  and  marble,  into  which  the  sun 
had  gone  down  early  in  a  blur  of  faint  red.  All  the 
plain  was  beginning  to  turn  blue  under  the  incoming 
tide  of  twilight,  a  tide  that  washed  up  and  up  like  a 
blue  sea,  shading  with  azure  the  green  leaves  of  the 
vines  and  the  silver  leaves  of  the  olives  and  the 
velvet  spire  of  a  cypress  pricking  an  early  star.  Yet 
the  air  was  not  cool,  there  was  a  weight  of  heat  in  it 
and  the  tramontane  had  died  down :  it  felt  as  though 
between  cloud  and  mountain  a  storm  were  brewing, 
'high  and  far  away. 

"Let  me  put  my  coat  under  you,"  said  Meredith 
gently,  "then  you  won't  soil  your  dress."  He  spread 
his  coat  on  the  riverside  turf  in  the  dense  shadow  of 
a  chestnut,  feeling  glad  to  be  screened  from  the  road 
behind  its  droop  of  green  fans.  Ever  since  leaving 
England  he  had  ached  to  be  alone  with  Kitty,  and  now 
in  the  vague  twilight  he  had  his  wish,  but  his  manner 
remained  as  gentle  and  formal  as  before. 

"Let  me  first  apologise  for  the  way  I  behaved  to 
you  in  Chelsea.  I  am  not  going  to  repeat  that  of- 
fence. I  didn't  love  you  so  well  then  as  I  do  now.  I've 
learnt  to  value  your  happiness  more  than  my  own, 

243 


244  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

and  if  you  really  were  happy — But,  of  course,  you 
aren't." 

"Quite  true,"  Kitty  smiled  assent.  "I  am  most  un- 
happy." 

"Because  English  society  doesn't  provide  for  the 
happiness  of  a  woman  who  lives  apart  from  her  hus- 
band. It  allows  you,  at  least  while  you're  so  young, 
no  life  of  your  own.  Now  you're  not  the  sort  of  woman 
to  be  content  with  a  Cambridgeshire  village.  You 
want  money  and  an  assured  position." 

"I  don't  want  anything  except  Evelyn." 

He  took  that  blow  without  flinching.  "But,  since 
you  can't  have  him,  why  not  put  up  with  second-best? 
Oh,  my  friend,  I've  no  illusions!  not  even  about  my- 
self. I  love  you,  but  it  won't  last — passion  never  lasts : 
you  care  for  your  husband,  but  that  won't  last  either : 
indeed,  to  be  brutally  frank,  it's  probable  that  if  you 
came  to  me  I  could  make  you  forget  him  and  care 
for  me  instead.  .  .  .  I  may  go  on?  .  .  .  Nature  makes 
short  work  of  our  sentimentalities.  She  has  her  own 
job  to  perform.  That's  why  on  an  average  the  ar- 
ranged foreign  marriages  turn  out  as  well  as  ours 
do.  ...  If  you  have  ever  visualised  me  as  your  lover, 
you've  always  seen  yourself  shrinking  from  me.  I  say 
you  would  not  shrink.  Not  for  more  than  a  few  min- 
utes." He  drew  himself  erect  and  held  back  his  broad 
shoulders  as  if  to  make  her  feel  the  force  of  manhood 
latent  in  him.  "Call  me  a  materialist  if  you  like,  but, 
with  physiological  laws  behind  me,  I  am  certain  that  I 
could  substitute  myself  for  Evelyn  in  your  affections. 
Even  if  that  were  not  so.  however,  in  three  years'  time 
the  romance  would  be  out  of  both  of  us.  but  you  would 
still  have  the  solid  advantages  I  could  give  you." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  245 

"Money  no  doubt,  but  as  to  the  assured  position  I'm 
not  so  clear.  Evelyn  may  be  a  halfhearted  husband, 
but  after  all  I  am  his  wife." 

"Evelyn  is  practically  dead." 

"As  good  as  dead?"  Kitty  murmured  with  her  im- 
perceptible irony.  "Not  in  the  eyes  of  the  law." 

"If  he  were  dead  you  wouldn't  hesitate  to  marry 
again." 

"No?" 

"No,  you're  too  sensible,"  said  Meredith  bluntly. 
"A  woman  who  loses  her  husband  before  she's  twenty- 
five  always  marries  again  if  she  gets  the  chance.  Eve- 
lyn is  morally  dead  to  you.  If  you  came  to  me  he 
would  divorce  you,  in  a  year's  time  you  would  be  my 
wife,  in  another  six  months  or  so  we  should  be  settled 
in  town,  and  who  would  blame  you  for  it?  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  stiffest  households 
overlook  such  necessary  bits  of  reconstruction,  which 
are  forced  on  people  every  day  by  our  out  of  date 
divorce  laws.  Before  three  years  were  up  the  story 
would  be  virtually  forgotten,  and  you  would  be  in  a 
position  to  pick  and  choose  your  acquaintance!" 

Kitty  rose  and  stood  facing  him  in  the  green  shadow, 
her  hands  clenched  behind  her  waist  over  the  ivory 
stick  of  her  parasol.  The  words  that  rose  to  her 
lips  were  the  cliches  of  helpless  anger  consecrated  to 
such  a  situation  on  the  stage.  But  how  unfair  it 
would  have  been  to  cry  "How  dare  you?"  to  Meredith, 
who  was  only  infringing  rights  which  there  was  no  one 
to  defend!  Evelyn's  desertion  left  her  exposed  to 
worse  insults  than  the  offer  of  an  irregular  marriage. 
"Thank  you,"  she  answered,  "you  mean  well,  but  I 
am  oldfashioned,  and  I  should  feel  it  a  disgrace  to  be 


246  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

divorced.  Oh,  more  than  a  disgrace!  A  sin — you 
know  what  a  sin  is?  What  you  go  to  Hell  for  when 
you  die." 

"Divorce  him  yourself  then." 

"For  what?  for  desertion?  you  know  he  has  given 
me  no  other  grounds." 

"Has  he  not?" 

"Explain,  please,"  said  Kitty,  imperturbable  ex- 
cept for  the  flush  that  tinged  her  cheek. 

Meredith  stood  for  a  minute  or  more  silent,  with 
bent  head.  Now  that  the  brink  was  reached  he  was 
reluctant  to  take  the  plunge.  It  was  against  his 
code  to  betray  a  man  to  a  woman,  and  he  had  hoped 
against  hope  that  Dent  would  have  the  sense  to  come 
on  some  damning  evidence  which  would  make  Mere- 
dith's testimony  superfluous.  But  now  there  was  no 
other  way  of  winning  Kitty ;  and  Evelyn  had  betrayed 
her.  Meredith  hardened  his  heart. 

"You  force  me  into  an  odious  position,  because  I 
used  to  be  Evelyn's  friend.  But  I  am  yours  even  more, 
and  I  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that  I  did  not  get  his 
address  from  Millerand,  but  from  a  woman  of  light 
character,  who  was  generally  suspected  of  being  his 
mistress  before  he  married  you." 

"She  gave  it  you?" 

"Millerand  referred  me  to  her."  Meredith  was  not 
ashamed  of  his  treachery  to  Sophy — a  woman,  and  a 
light  woman  at  that:  alas,  poor  Sophy! — but  he  did 
feel  that  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  go  into  unnecessary 
details  which  Kitty  might  misunderstand.  "Miller- 
and never  had  Evelyn's  address.  All  the  arrangements 
for  the  production  of  the  Suite  passed  through  her 
hands.  I  need  hardly  tell  you  what  conclusion  Miller- 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  247 

and  had  drawn.  As  Evelyn  must  have  foreseen.  One 
supposes  he  didn't  care." 

"But  where  was  she  then — this  woman?" 

"She  has  been  living  in  Chelsea,  in  the  flat  above 
Evelyn's  She  was  in  it  during  all  the  time  of  your 
marriage." 

Kitty  had  the  sensation  of  having  a  dagger  thrust 
into  her  side.  But  it  was  no  sooner  driven  home  than 
she  wrenched  it  out  again.  Whatever  else  was  or 
was  not  true,  the  touchstone  of  an  upright  mind  re- 
jected this  poisonous  implication.  "Sophy  Carter? 
Yes,  I  know  her  name.  You  hint  that  Evelyn  was 
deceiving  me  with  her?  He  wasn't.  Nor  did  he 
leave  me  for  her.  But  he  might  have  gone  to  her 
since." 

"Or  she  to  him.  She  left  London  a  few  days  ago 
for  Perpignan.  This  morning  after  breakfast  I  went 
the  round  of  the  hotels  without  finding  any  trace  of 
her." 

"But  my  husband  is  alone  at  Evol !" 

Meredith  was  silent. 

"You  forget  that  George  has  just  been  staying 
there." 

"Dent  arrived  after  ten  last  night  and  left  early 
this  morning;  'shot  out'  was  his  own  word." 

"However  little  time  it  was,  he  did  stay  there,  and 
one  couldn't  conceal  a  woman's  presence  in  a  cottage 
like  that !  Evelyn  took  him  all  over  it — " 

"Did  he?" 

"Why,  there  were  only  four  rooms!  the  parlour 
and  kitchen,  and  the  room  George  slept  in,  and — 

Kitty  stopped,  and  after  a  moment  turned  away. 
She  felt  herself  blushing  like  a  young  girl  who  has 


248  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

come  unawares  on  a  sight  not  fit  for  her,  and  she 
could  not  endure  Meredith's  eyes.  She  had  grown 
weak  and  hot  from  head  to  foot,  the  trees  and  grass 
began  to  change  colour,  then  came  a  deadly  sensation 
of  lassitude  .  .  .  and  then  Meredith's  voice,  low  and 
fierce,  "Kitty!  Kitty!  damn  him!  what  right  has  he 
to  make  you  suffer  so?" 

Languidly  Kitty  opened  her  eyes.  She  was  lying 
flat  on  the  turf  and  Meredith  was  kneeling  over  her, 
moistening  her  forehead  with  a  wet  handkerchief. 
His  keen  handsome  features  were  as  white  as  her 
own,  his  lips  were  parted,  he  looked  like  a  man  very 
much  in  love  and  yet  shaken  by  pity,  as  if  he  were 
actually  thinking  more  of  her  than  of  himself.  Kitty 
shut  her  eyes  again.  Her  mind  was  working  lucidly, 
but  a  dire  exhaustion  weighed  aown  her  limbs  and  her 
voice.  She  felt  Meredith's  hand  on  her  wrist,  and  she 
tried  to  tell  him  that  she  was  already  better  an  J  there 
was  no  need  for  anxiety,  but  no  sound  came,  and  she 
lay  still,  in  a  respite  that  was  not  unwelcome:  too 
tired  to  be  angry,  though  she  knew  that  Meredith  in 
spite  of  his  genuine  distress  was  enjoying  the  privi- 
leges that  her  dependence  conferred.  A  vein  of  cold 
cynicism  in  Kitty  was  even  grateful  to  him  for  enjoy- 
ing them. 

And  rapidly  and  dispassionately  she  went  over  in 
her  own  mind  what  had  passed  between  them  in  the 
last  twenty  minutes.  Till  near  the  very  end  his  argu- 
ments had  left  her  untouched ;  she  had  listened  because 
it  was  her  habit  to  give  a  hearing  to  anyone  who 
asked  for  it,  but  for  all  the  impression  they  made 
she  might  as  well  have  stopped  her  ears.  Her  prin- 
ciples were  fixed,  oldfashioned  and  founded  on  relig- 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  249 

ious  considerations;  other  women  might  run  away 
with  their  lovers  if  they  liked — 

"Different  people  have  different  opinions" — 

but  such  things  simply  did  not  happen  to  Kitty  Dent. 
It  was  true  that  she  had  in  imagination  seen  Meredith 
as  her  lover,  because  when  a  subject  is  once  started  in 
an  active  mind  there  are  few  thoughts  that  do  not 
cross  it  at  one  time  or  another,  but  these  visions 
were  on  a  par  with  the  daydreams  of  murdering  our 
nearest  and  dearest  in  which  we  all  indulge  now  and 
then.  They  had  never  produced  anything  warmer 
than  an  amused  smile.  But — and  this  time  it  was  her 
own  hand  that  drove  the  "knife  into  her  quivering 
side  and  held  and  pressed  it  firmly  home — if  Evelyn 
had  given  her  the  right  to  divorce  him  it  made  a  dif- 
ference :  yes,  a  profound  and  far-reaching  difference. 

For  after  all  by  what  law  was  she  bound  to  Evelyn? 
Social?  There  is  no  social  law  that  condemns  the 
re-marriage  of  the  innocent  party.  Moral?  Race 
ethics  would  be  better  served  by  her  union  with  Mere- 
dith. Religious?  Well!  that  bar  held  fast  for  a 
High  Anglican,  but  not  for  every  school.  Kitty  had 
been  brought  up  to  believe  that  divorce  in  itself  was 
shameful  and  re-marriage  a  mortal  sin — indeed  rather 
more  damning  for  the  innocent  than  for  the  guilty,  who 
were  damned  already!  Such  was  George  Dent's 
simple  creed,  and  from  it  nothing  would  have  moved 
him.  But  religion,  the  religion  of  principle  and  con- 
duct, meant  a  great  deal  to  George  Dent,  who  was  too 
tough  and  self-reliant  to  care  how  lonely  his  path  was 
or  how  stony  underfoot  so  long  as  it  ran  between  the 


250  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

hedges  of  duty.  Not  all  of  us  are  called  to  follow 
counsels  of  perfection.  Kitty  was  not  weak,  but  she 
was  practical ;  nothing  would  have  made  her  do  what 
she  thought  wrong,  but  she  doubted  whether  Dent  and 
his  High  Anglicans  had  a  monopoly  of  rectitude.  "I'm 
not  so  religious  as  George  is,  nor  so  old,"  she  reflected. 
And  she  blushed,  remembering  certain  moods  not  of 
the  spirit  that  had  come  on  her  in  her  loneliness,  and 
which  it  had  taken  her  last  inch  of  strength  to  fight 
down.  Danger,  the  danger  of  presumption,  lies  in 
nailing  a  middle-class  mind  to  the  cross  of  an  ideal 
too  high  for  it. 

But  if  she  was  not  bound  to  Evelyn  by  laws  social, 
or  moral,  or  religious,  what  link  was  left  except  what 
Meredith  had  called  sentimentality — that  sterile  ten- 
derness which  clings  to  its  past  instead  of  turning  to 
meet  the  future? 

Suppose  she  divorced  Evelyn  to  marry  Meredith: 
the  step  would  require  courage,  but  in  courage  Kitty 
had  never  been  deficient.  Faith  too :  but  on  that  score 
Kitty  felt  tranquil — she  was  not  of  those  women  whom 
men  betray.  As  surely  as  she  committed  her  honour 
into  Meredith's  hands,  she  could  trust  him  to  cherish 
it  as  the  honour  of  his  wife.  So  far  as  that  went,  she 
could  have  trusted  him  even  in  an  irregular  connec- 
tion ;  if  she  had  gone  to  him  before  securing  legal  free- 
dom, she  knew  that  he  would  have  married  her  at  the 
first  possible  moment.  And  watching  from  under  her 
eyelashes  that  strained,  quivering  face,  she  wondered 
what  it  would  be  like  to  become  his  wife :  to  exchange 
this  torturing  devotion  to  the  past,  for  a  determined 
grip  on  life's  second-best. 

Children — the  children  of  Meredith  instead  of  the 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  251 

children  of  Evelyn  .  .  .  strange  idea!  Almost  beyond 
imagination,  yet  not  quite:  she  shuddered  at  it,  but 
there  would  be  relief  in  it :  the  forces  of  nature  pushed 
her  towards  it,  in  their  imperious  need  of  fruition. 
And  a  social  place  of  her  own — that  drew  Kitty,  who 
in  her  young  days  had  liked  the  prospect  of  ruling 
Temple  Evelyn.  At  what  price?  At  the  price  of  sub- 
mission to  an  unsparing  and  dominant  love.  After 
six  months  of  marriage  to  Evelyn  Kitty  still  felt  like 
a  maiden,  but  she  divined  that  Meredith  would  not 
leave  her  one  vestige  of  her  innocent  and  delicate 
reserve :  nor  would  she,  though  absolved  by  every  law, 
cease  to  feel  unchaste.  What !  give  herself  to  Meredith 
while  Evelyn  lived?  Oh  never,  never!  .  .  .  Yet  sup- 
pose one  took  this  great  step,  what  a  change!  How 
swiftly  one  would  be  drawn  out  of  one's  torpid  back- 
water and  flung  down  the  main  stream  of  life  again,  in 
wind  and  sun ! 

"Edmund.  .  .  ." 

"Kitty!  my  own!  you  will  come  to  me?" 

Still  languid,  she  raised  herself  on  one  arm  again 
and  pushed  him  away,  her  hand  against  his  coat. 
"Listen:  don't  touch  me.  I  don't  love  you.  I  love 
my  husband.  I  always  have  loved  Evelyn  ever  since 
I  was  a  child,  and  you  never  would  make  me  forget 
him :  in  your  arms  I  should  remember  him  and  wish 
I  were  in  his.  This  is  the  truth,  and  it  will  always 
remain  true.  If  I  come  to  you  perhaps  some  day  I 
shall  deny  it  and  say  you've  made  me  forget  him,  but 
I  warn  you  beforehand  that  that  won't  be  true:  it 
will  only  mean  that  I'm  more  fond  of  you  and  more 
sorry  for  you  then  than  I  am  now.  I  am  Evelyn's." 

"Wait  till  you've  been  mine  a  year — 


252  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Half  sad  and  half  mocking,  the  smile  in  her  eyes 
put  him  to  silence.  "Are  all  men  children?  Listen 
again,  and  try  to  believe  that  I  understand  myself 
better  than  you  do ;  I  shouldn't  like  it  if  some  day  you 
were  to  reproach  me  with  not  having  warned  you. 
You  never  will?  Oh!  yes,  you  will,  men  always  for- 
get what  they  would  rather  not  have  heard.  Listen, 
Edmund ;  if  I  come  to  you  it'll  be  for  what  I  can  get 
out  of  you,  'money  and  a  position,'  and,  what  I  want 
far  more,  an  active  life  of  wide  interests  and  fresh 
feelings.  I'm  not  patient:  I'm  full  of  energy,  and 
at  the  Manor  Farm  I  haven't  enough  to  fill  my  hands. 
I  like  pleasure,  I  don't  much  mind  pain,  but  I  cannot 
stand  inaction.  I'd  rather  go  through  any  amount 
of  wear  and  tear  than  be  laid  up  in  lavender." 

"I  don't  care  a  snap  of  the  fingers  why  you  come  to 
me  so  long  as  you  do  come." 

"Pears'  Soap !"  Kitty  jeered  at  him.  "Listen — don't 
touch  me:  I'm  not  yours  yet.  Do  you  hate  me  for 
making  conditions?  Am  I  hard?  Well,  you  can  take 
me  or  leave  me — I  feel  hard.  I  can  see  you're  hurt, 
and  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but  not  very  sorry,  because  I'm 
hurt  too  and  if  I  come  to  you  I — I — " 

She  broke  down  and  sobbed,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief  against  Meredith's  arm. 

"Kitty,  my  sweetest,  my  own,"  Meredith  soothed 
her  brokenly,  "I  could  shoot  Evelyn  when  I  see  you 
Buffer  so !" 

"But  I  never  will  come  to  you  unless — " 

"Unless  what,  my  dearest?" 

"So  long  as  Evelyn  is  faithful  to  me." 

Meredith  sighed.  In  some  ways  he  would  rather 
have  made  sure  of  Kitty  out  of  hand  by  an  irregular 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  253 

connection  and  left  it  to  Evelyn  to  set  her  free:  one 
could  trust  Evelyn  to  be  generous.  An  undefended 
suit,  it  would  have  gone  through  so  quickly  and 
quietly,  whereas  now  ...  To  divorce  Evelyn  meant 
interminable  delay,  and  tedious  prudence  from  end  to 
end  of  it ;  this  very  journey  was  an  indiscretion.  .  .  . 
And  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  Meredith  was  not  so 
certain  of  Sophy's  presence  at  iSvol  as  he  would  have 
liked  to  be.  It  must  be  so,  and  yet.  .  .  .  He  had  no 
particular  faith  in  Evelyn's  married  morality,  but 
there  were  limitations  of  taste  and  temperament  to 
consider:  Evelyn's  temperament,  so  cold,  eternally 
preoccupied  with  his  work,  and  Sophy's  so  fond  of 
luxury!  Wouldn't  it  require  a  bolder  woman  than 
Sophy  to  face  the  solitudes  of  Evol?  Could  she  live 
without  a  shop? 

"I  accept  that  decision,  Kitty:  though  I  rather 
regret  it.  This  is  one  of  the  cases  where  there's  much 
to  gain  and  little  to  lose  by  defying  convention." 

"Leave  me,  then,"  said  Kitty,  languidly  rising  to 
her  feet.  "Oh,  why  was  I  so  inconsiderate  as  to  faint 
in  this  dress?  I've  only  one  other  with  me,  and  now 
I'm  all  dusty.  Well,  leave  me:  marry  a  nice  girl  that 
you  can  marry  out  of  hand  without  going  through 
the  mud  for  her.  I  owe  you  friendship  and  gratitude, 
but  I  won't  defy  convention  for  you.  If  you  want  me 
you  must  give  everything  and  I  shall  give  nothing. 
It's  a  bad  bargain." 

"I  call  no  bargain  bad  that  gives  me  you,"  said 
Meredith  hoarsely. 

Kitty's  eyelashes  fluttered,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell : 
she  was  too  young  not  to  feel  glad  to  be  desired.  And 
yet — •  "I  am  doing  wrong,"  she  said,  turning  her 


254  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

small,  still,  white  face  and  wide  eyes  towards  tlie  star- 
lit redness  of  after-sunset.  "Adultery  does  not  con- 
done adultery." 

"Kitty !  it  is  you  for  calling  a  spade  a  spade.  How 
oldfashioned  you  are  in  your  heart!  Do  you  really 
believe  all  these  'fables  and  antique  toys'?  Ah  well, 
I  love  you  for  that  too,  for  being  different  from  most 
of  the  women  I've  known.  After  all,  when  it  comes  to 
getting  married,  one  likes  a  woman  to  be  religious. 
No,  I  wouldn't  have  you  come  to  me  on  any  other 
terms;  if  you  did  I  shouldn't  trust  you  as  my  wife, 
whereas  now — " 

"Now  you  take  it  as  a  compliment  to  your  manhood 
that  you  can  make  me  sin  with  my  eyes  open?" 

"I  love  you,"  said  Meredith  humbly. 

She  was  touched  by  that  and  smiled  at  him.  "At 
all  events  there  shall  be  no  half  measures.  I  won't 
come  to  you  unless  Evelyn  betrays  me,  but  if  I  do  I'll 
grudge  nothing  and  I'll  never  look  back." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THEN,  by  Meredith's  wish,  the  strange  terms 
on  which  he  stood  with  Kitty  were  laid  before 
George  Dent.  Meredith  said,  "Let  us  do  nothing 
underhand.  I've  no  one  to  consult,  but  your  brother 
is  your  natural  guardian  and  ought  to  be  told.  We're 
in  for  a  long  wait,  and  we  shall  have  to  act  with  the 
utmost  prudence,  for  I  dare  say  you  know  enough  of 
the  law  to  understand  that  you  wouldn't  obtain  your 
divorce  if  any  gossip  got  about.  I  shan't  be  able  to 
see  much  of  you  when  we're  back  in  England.  I  ought 
not  to  be  here  now.  Most  certainly  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  here  last  night  while  Dent  was  away.  But, 
since  to  that  extent  the  mischief's  done,  I  should  pre- 
fer, unless  you  dislike  the  idea  very  strongly,  to  be 
quite  open  with  your  brother.  He's  always  behaved 
very  decently  to  me  and  I  should  feel  like  a  sweep 
if  I  deceived  him."  This  view  commended  itself  to 
Kitty,  a  scorner  of  crooked  ways  and  dark  corners. 
It  made  her  feel  that  her  feet  were  on  firm  ground. 
Meredith  was  sincere  in  it. 

In  the  half-Spanish  patio  of  their  h6tel  that  eve- 
ning, with  undisputed  courage  and  tact  and  temper, 
Meredith  gave  Dent  the  substance  of  what  had  passed 
between  him  and  Kitty.  He  did  not  even  conceal  the 
irregularity  of  his  original  offer.  The  sky  overhead 
was  densely  and  deeply  blue,  as  if  all  the  dust  of  noon 
floated  under  the  bright  sparkling  stars,  and  dark- 
ened them.  The  courtyard,  shut  between  four  dazz- 

255 


256  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

lingly  white  walls  that  had  reflected  the  sun  all  day, 
was  intensely  hot,  and  crammed  with  flowers  so  thickly 
planted  that  one  could  not  move  between  them — tall 
palms,  the  pink  papery  blossoms  of  lauriers  roses, 
golden  epaulettes  d'officier,  garlands  of  heliotrope, 
thickets  of  rose  and  fuchsia  and  hydrangea,  packed 
together  into  one  rich  heady-scented  tangle  without 
grass  or  shade.  Among  the  sycomores  in  the  not 
far  distant  Place  a  military  band  was  playing  Sous 
Ics  Fonts  de  Paris — 


H6-tel   duCour-ant  d'Air, 

Ou  1'on  ne  paie    pas 

cher, . . .    L'parfum   et  1'eau  c'est  pour  rien  mon  mar 


quis,      Sous    les  ponts     de     Par  -  is .... 

with  the  precision  and  gaiety  which  are  the  birth- 
right of  sweet  France :  and  there  no  doubt  under  the 
shadow  of  the  plane  trees,  in  and  out  among  the  tables 
at  which  their  parents  sat  frugally  sipping  strops  at 
fifteen  sous  a  glass  and  red  wine  at  two  francs  a  litre, 
the  young  men  and  girls  were  waltzing  with  the  in- 
communicable entrain  of  youth.  The  merry,  sad  little 
tune  which  praised  love  and  made  a  jest  of  poverty 
was  mingled  with  the  hushed  murmur  of  a  fountain 
behind  Meredith's  clear,  soft  voice. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  the  divorce  laws?" 
Dent  shook  his  head.  "Well,  divorce  for  desertion 
is  a  slow  business,  and  one  has  to  go  deucedly  cau- 
tiously to  work.  If  it  came  out  in  court  that  Kitty — 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  257 

that  I — that  she  was  going  to  marry  again,  as  likely 
as  not  her  petition  would  be  refused  and  she  would 
be  tied  to  Evelyn  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  In  any 
event,  English  society  doesn't  draw  much  of  a  line 
between  the  woman  who  divorces  her  husband  and 
the  woman  who  is  divorced  by  him.  Broadly  speak- 
ing, both  are  received  in  London  and  cold-shouldered 
in  the  country.  So  that  I  was  more  than  half  inclined 
to  take  Kitty  away  now  and  leave  it  to  Evelyn  to  set 
her  free.  It  would  have  meant  beginning  with  an 
irregular  step.  But  it  wouldn't  have  lasted  long — 
not  one  day  longer  than  I  could  help;  and  it  would 
have  come  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  and  a  much 
quicker  end.  I  own  I  dislike  this  long  delay  and  sep- 
aration with  no  declarable  engagement.  In  all  the 
circumstances,  I  hope,  Dent,  you're  not  going  to  be 
angry  with  me  for  suggesting  such  a  step." 

"But  you  didn't  agree  to  Meredith's  proposal, 
Kitty?"  said  Dent,  turning  his  kind  sad  eyes  on  his 
sister.  Kitty  glanced  down.  She  was  in  the  thinnest 
and  softest  of  grey  dresses,  her  arms  and  shoulders 
only  veiled:  its  semi-transparency  revealed  how  thin 
and  fragile  she  had  grown,  slenderer  now  in  her  fin- 
ished maturity  of  womanhood  than  in  her  teens. 

"No :  but  I  wasn't  angry  with  him.  I  am  not  happy 
at  the  Manor  Farm  now,  George.  It  isn't  that  I'm 
tired  of  it,  I  love  the  dear  old  place  as  much  as  ever, 
but  one  can't,  after  being  a  married  woman,  go  back 
and  be  a  girl  again." 

"Of  course  the  stock  arguments  would  be  thrown 
away,"  Dent  mused,  lighting  his  pipe.  "I'm  not  going 
to  preach.  You  wouldn't  listen  if  I  did.  ...  Do  I 
think  it  wrong?  Well,  I  don't  think :  I  know,  and  so 
do  you,  old  girl.  'Course  it's  wrong.  You  ought  to 


258  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

stick  to  Eve.  By  what  I  can  make  out  you  ought  to 
have  stuck  to  him  all  along,  but  anyhow  you've  no 
right  to  pick  and  choose  now,  say  you  don't  like  this 
and  you  can't  put  up  with  t'other.  We  weren't  sent 
into  this  world  to  be  happy  but  to  do  our  duty.  So  far 
as  I  can  see,  it  don't  signify  two  straws  whether  we're 
happy  or  not.  If  it  comes  to  that,  you  two  in  making 
yourselves  happy  will  make  me  wretched  for  the 
rest  of  my  life :  but  I  don't  say  that  to  influence  you — 
that's  not  the  point." 

"Is  it  my  leaving  Evelyn  that  you  dislike  so  much, 
or  my  re-marriage?" 

"Re-marriage!  I  wonder  you  can  sit  there  and 
talk  about  re-marriage.  You're  a  Churchwoman, 
aren't  you?  Oh  Lord  yes!  you'll  soon  find  a  clergy- 
man that's  willing  to  ^re-marry'  you.  It's  legal,  and 
the  Church  of  England  has  got  men  in  it  that  would 
marry  a  man  to  his  grandmother  if  it  were  legal.  But 
the  best  men  in  the  Church  don't  hold  with  it :  and  I 
don't  and  never  shall.  To  my  mind  it  don't  make  much 
odds  whether  you  wait  to  be  're-married,'  as  you  call 
it,  or  go  off  with  Meredith  now.  I  tell  you  straight, 
Kitty,  in  my  eyes  you'll  never  be  his  wife  so  long 
as  Eve's  alive.  Now  then." 

"That  is  an  extreme  view,"  said  Meredith  quietly : 
"entirely  unreasonable." 

"Maybe,"  Dent  nodded.  "But  I'm  talking  to  my 
sister,  not  to  you.  You're  not  a  Churchman  and  don't 
hold  the  same  opinions  that  Kitty  and  I  do.  You've 
acted  quite  straightforwardly  according  to  your  lights. 
The  worst  that  can  be  said  of  you  is  that  you're  be- 
having pretty  badly  to  Evelyn.  To  my  mind  you've 
no  right  to  pick  his  pocket." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  259 

Meredith  shrugged  his  shoulders.    "Will  he  care?" 

u  'Course  he'll  care.  It's  a  disgrace :  a  black  mark 
on  his  name.  Evelyn's  careless  about  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  things  out  of  a  thousand,  but  he's 
jealous  of  his  name.  Rightly,  too:  it's  an  old  name, 
and  the  womenfolk  of  the  family  have  always  been 
careful  of  it.  They  say  both  Charles  II  and  George 
II  came  to  Temple  Evelyn  and  were  sent  off  with 
fleas  in  their  ears.  In  those  days  our  people  were 
bailiffs  on  the  estate.  I've  read  about  Charles's  go- 
ings-on in  Roger  Dent's  Commonplace  Book.  <I  have 
supped  well  and  yet  I  go  hungry/  said  the  Stuart  as 
he  hoisted  himself  into  the  saddle — Lawrence  Evelyn 
was  holding  his  stirrup  for  him  and  Roger  was  stand- 
ing by.  <Oh,  my  wife/  said  Lawrence,  'is  famous  for 
sending  folk  away  with  a  good  appetite/  " 

"Lawrence  Evelyn  is  dead,"  said  Kitty,  "and  the 
fair  Dorothy  is  dead  and  entirely  undistinguished. 
If  she  had  played  her  cards  better  I  might  be  a  duchess. 
But  not  to  make  myself  out  worse  than  I  am — which 
you  irresistibly  tempt  me  to  do — let  me  point  out  to 
you  that  I'm  not  going  to  divorce  Evelyn  for  desertion 
only.  I  couldn't  do  it,  as  I  suppose  you  know,  though 
you  never  read  divorce  reports,  do  you?  The  law 
requires  other  grounds.  Edmund  thinks  they  have 
been  given."  It  irritated  her  to  find  that  it  required 
courage  to  call  Meredith  by  his  Christian  name  before 
her  brother.  But  in  her  present  temper  opposition 
only  hardened  her.  "In  that  case  it  would  be  Evelyn 
who  was  answerable  for  the  black  mark.  Edmund, 
please  tell  George  on  what  condition  I've  promised  to 
go  to  you." 

But  Dent  was  not  placated  by  Kitty's  condition. 


260  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

He  got  up— "Kitty !  this  passes.  Don't  I  tell  you  I 
asked  Evelyn  point-blank  if  he  had  been  faithful  to 
you?  'Neither  act  nor  thought' — that's  what  he  said : 
and  he  gave  me  his  word  for  it.  Would  Eve  lie  to  me 
— Eve  that  never  told  a  lie  in  his  life,  not  even  to 
Philip,  and  that  I've  always  felt  towards  as  if  he 
were  a  young  brother  of  my  own?  You  know  better 
than  that." 

"Evelyn,"  Meredith  remarked,  "may  never  have 
had  such  excellent  reason  for  telling  a  lie  before." 

Dent  turned  on  him  in  anger.  "Look  here,  Mere- 
dith, you  came  to  Chelsea  as  Evelyn's  friend." 

"And  I  regret  it  very  much.  It  puts  me  in  an  odious 
position.  But  let  us  qualify  our  terms :  I  should  not 
blame  him  for  lying  to  protect  a  lady — would  you?" 

"Edmund  thinks,"  said  Kitty,  suppressing  an  irrele- 
vant and  untimely  wish  that  Meredith  would  not 
always  say  a,  lady instead  of  a  woman,  "that  Evelyn 
was  not  alone  at  Evol." 

Under  Dent's  light  blue  level  eyes  Meredith 
shifted  in  his  chair.  Dent  was  dismayingly  shrewd. 
He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Kitty,  don't  let  cats  out  of 
bags.  Meredith  says  a  lot  of  things  to  you  that  he 
wouldn't  care  to  repeat  to  me.  That's  one  of  them. 
You  don't  believe  it,  Meredith.  You  only  want  to 
make  Kitty  jealous.  You  aren't  ass  enough  to  believe 
he  had  a  woman  with  him  in  a  four-roomed  cottage 
ten  miles  from  anywhere  with  no  water  laid  on  and 
no  cooking  apparatus  but  a  paraffin  stove." 

Meredith  jerked  his  cigar  away.  He  too  was  angry 
now  though  his  manner  remained  polite:  the  angrier 
because,  though  his  ^reason  was  honestly  convinced 
that  Sophy  was  at  Evol,  there  lingered  in  the  back 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  261 

of  his  mind  that  stubborn,  instinctive  doubt.  "It 
seems  improbable.  But  the  fact  remains  that  Evelyn 
hustled  you  out  of  the  house  in  under  twelve  hours 
and  you  did  not  go  into  all  four  rooms.  You  are  mis- 
taken if  you  think  I  should  bring  this  charge  lightly. 
No,  I've  no  proof:  but  I  have  evidence."  Rapidly  he 
ran  over  what  he  had  learnt  from  Millerand  and  from 
Sophy's  maid.  "No  one  but  Evelyn  would  have 
employed  this  girl  as  a  go-between;  nor  would  even 
Evelyn,  one  supposes,  have  done  it  if  he  had  not  been 
on  intimate  terms  with  her  and  indifferent  to  com- 
ment." 

Dent's  heavy,  slightly  undershot  jaw  was  clenched. 
"I  tell  you  he  gave  me  his  word !" 

"So  should  I,  in  his  shoes.  You're  so  energetic. 
You  would  have  been  capable  of  going  upstairs.  .  .  . 
I'm  no  lawyer,  but  I'm  a  lawyer's  son,  and  I  can't  but 
point  out  that  in  a  court  of  enquiry  your  evidence 
wouldn't  go  far.  It  amounts  to  this,  that  we've  Eve- 
lyn's word  for  his  innocence ;  and  a  man's  word  isn't 
usually  taken  for  proof.  Dent,  since  you  press  me,  it 
does  seem  strange  to  me  that  he  should  have  got  rid  of 
you  in  such  a  hurry.  In  a  queer  place  like  that,  a 
makeshift  camp  in  the  woods,  the  first  thing  one  nat- 
urally says  is  'Like  to  look  over  it?'  Evelyn  appar- 
ently said  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  say  you  never 
even  saw  inside  his  room." 

Dent's  face  changed.  He  put  his  hand  before  his 
eyes.  Suddenly  there  had  floated  back  to  him  the  last 
noise  he  had  heard  before  going  to  sleep  overnight— 
the  locking  of  Evelyn's  door. 

"If  I  thought  that,"  he  said  more  to  himself  than  to 
Meredith,  "if  I  thought  that,  by  Heaven  .  .  ." 


262  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Meredith  eyed  him  curiously.  "What  then?  he 
isn't  up  to  your  fighting  weight,  my  dear  friend — or 
mine." 

"Fight,  there'd  be  no  fight  .  .  .  but  it's  impossible. 
Careless  if  you  like,  and  as  stubborn  as — but  not 
treacherous :  no,  no."  Dent  straightened  himself  and 
braced  back  his  shoulders  as  if  to  fling  off  a  burden. 
In  his  steady  eyes  there  was  more  than  a  shade  of 
contempt.  Its  injustice  angered  Meredith,  yet  he 
winced  under  it,  for  Dent  carried  heavy  guns.  Men 
like  Meredith,  aware  of  mixed  motives,  find  it  hard  to 
face  the  indignation,  right  or  wrong,  of  an  upright  and 
equitable  mind  like  that  of  George  Dent.  "So  that's 
your  opinion,  is  it?  Back  it,  then." 

"How?" 

"Come  up  with  me  to  ifcvol  to-morrow.  Eepeat  to 
Evelyn's  face,  if  you've  pluck  enough  to  do  it,  what 
you've  said  behind  his  back  to  me  and  Kitty :  challenge 
him  to  clear  himself." 

"That  is  quite  a  good  idea,"  said  Kitty.  "Do  it, 
Edmund.  Let  us  all  know  where  we  stand." 

But  Meredith  did  not  like  the  good  idea — far  from 
it:  Dent  could  not  have  hit  on  a  more  disagreeable 
ordeal.  It  brought  a  flush  to  his  face.  "But,  my 
dear  fellow,  these  are  Red  Indian  methods — the  social 
equivalent  of  the  bowie  and  the  tomahawk !  In  polite 
warfare  one  doesn't  go  to  work  so  crudely.  Are  you 
trying  to  force  a  quarrel  between  me  and  Evelyn? 
I'd  rather  not  come  to  blows." 

"There'll  be  no  quarrel,  if  I  know  Eve.  He  can 
keep  his  temper  if  you  can't.  Be  frank  with  him, 
since  you're  so  keen  on  being  frank;  if  you  want  to 
steal  your  friend's  wife  don't  do  it  behind  his  back!" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  263 

"It's  preposterous,"  said  Meredith  hotly  and  with- 
out any  of  the  affectation  that  had  become  his  second 
nature.  "He  would  kick  us  both  out  of  the  house!" 

"You're  afraid  to  face  him." 

"Afraid  to  face  Evelyn !  I?"  He  laughed,  genuinely 
amused.  "My  good  chap,  Evelyn  must  have  altered 
a  lot  before  I  should  be  afraid  to  tackle  him !" 

"Oh,  not  afraid  in  that  way,"  said  Dent  impatiently. 
"You're  not  going  to  come  to  blows.  If  there  were  a 
row  it  would  be  me — but  that's  neither  here  or  there. 
'Afraid'  's  the  wrong  word :  what  I  mean  is  ashamed." 

Meredith  stood  up.  He  had  not  felt  so  angry  since 
he  was  a  boy,  but  to  quarrel  with  Dent  was  impossible. 
He  brushed  his  way  once  or  twice  up  and  down  a 
ribbon  of  path  threaded  in  and  out  of  the  flowery  patio, 
struggling  with  his  incontinent  temper,  before  coming 
back  to  the  brother  and  sister  who  waited  for  him 
under  the  palm  arcade.  Singularly  alike,  those  two ! 
they  had  not  exchanged  a  word  during  his  absence, 
both  wore  the  same  placid  expression,  both  were 
obviously  waiting  for  him  to  agree  to  this  extraor- 
dinary proposal,  against  which  every  fibre  of  his 
common  sense  rebelled.  Dent  too,  with  his  shrewd 
level  head!  One  would  have  resigned  oneself  to  a 
strange  whim  or  two  in  Kitty — a  woman,  and  a  young 
and  pretty  woman,  and  one  so  strangely  placed  that 
almost  any  disturbance  of  the  situation  might  do  her 
good  and  could  scarcely  do  her  harm.  It  would  have 
been  easy  to  consent  and  subsequently  wriggle  out  of 
it.  But  Dent!  Once  nailed  by  Dent,  wriggling 
would  be  both  undignified  and  ineffectual.  One  would 
have  to  go  through  with  the  disgusting  business  .  .  . 
Well,  Dent  was  not  a  man  of  the  world,  that  was  what 


264  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

was  wrong  with  him.  He  was  bitten  with  High 
Church  fads :  and  raging  Meredith  said  to  himself  that 
if  this  was  what  came  of  Dent's  affection  for  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount,  confound  him,  it  was  certainly 
not  a  religion  for  gentlemen.  An  agreeable  interview 
this  that  he  had  so  coolly  mapped  out  for  Meredith — 
to  go  to  a  man  who  still  considered  Meredith  his 
friend,  and  explain  to  him  the  terms  on  which  he  hoped 
to  steal  his  wife !  "I'll  take  up  your  challenge,  though 
it  is  a  foolhardy  one,  will  give  Evelyn  unnecessary 
distress,  and  may  lead  to  mischief.  But  I  accept  it  as 
I  accepted  Kitty's  original  condition :  because  she  has 
the  right  to  impose  what  terms  she  likes." 

"It'll  clear  up  the  situation  at  all  events,"  said  Dent 
rising.  "Calling  yourself  Evelyn's  friend,  you  can't 
pick  his  pocket.  Fair  and  square  is  my  motto.  I'll 
turn  in  now.  Kitty,  you  had  better  cut  off  to  bed  too." 

"It's  early  yet,"  pleaded  Meredith.  He  would  have 
liked  five  minutes  with  Kitty  under  the  lauriers  roses, 
even  if  they  had  said  nothing  to  each  other  which  Dent 
might  not  have  heard :  he  felt  jarred  and  restless,  and 
the  longing  to  be  alone  with  her  was  strong  upon  him. 
He  would  have  been  content  simply  to  sit  by  her  with- 
out uttering  a  word.  But  Kitty  shook  her  head, 
faintly  and  compassionately  smiling  at  him. 

"Not  tonight,  Edmund.  I  agree  with  George — I 
had  rather  Evelyn  knew." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CHARLES." 
"What?" 
"I  only  wanted  to  make  sure  you  were  in- 
doors." 

"Rather!     Why?" 

"Just  look  at  the  sky." 

"Shan't.  I'll  put  you  in  a  corner,  Sophy,  if  you  talk 
to  me  while  I'm  working." 

Sophy  smiled,  the  frame  of  mind  was  healthy;  in 
Chelsea  Evelyn  would  have  come  out  to  look  at  the 
sky,  raging  irritation  imperfectly  disguised  under  a 
tense  affability.  In  his  newfound  peace  of  mind  he 
could  afford  to  be  rude.  "Play  to  me." 

"By'n'  by." 

Sophy  sat  on  the  doorstep,  her  arms  about  her  knees. 
Her  brown  hair  hung  in  plaits  down  her  back,  her  feet 
were  bare,  and  she  wore  one  of  the  Shetland  dresses 
that  were  going  to  be  worn  that  year,  a  thin  white 
woollen  dress  without  collar  or  girdle,  the  shawl  - 
shaped  bodice  open  over  her  long  ivory  throat.  She 
had  reached  Evol  on  Thursday  afternoon  and  it  was 
now  Friday  evening;  twenty -four  hours  had  sufficed 
to  peel  off  her  few  faint  airs  of  sophistication;  she 
looked  like  a  boy  of  fifteen,  "cool  as  aspen-leaves"  and 
graceful  only  with  the  accidental  grace  of  saplings 
and  grasses.  In  a  French  gallery  to  which  few 
English  painters  have  gained  entry,  there  hangs  a 
painting  of  a  young  girl  lying  face  downward  on  the 

265 


266  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

turf  beside  a  bonfire,  and  raised  on  her  folded  arms 
so  that  the  flamelight  is  reflected  on  her  face  and 
bosom.  It  is  little  more  than  a  portrait  of  Sophy  at 
nineteen:  and  the  critic  was  right  who  wrote  of  it 
in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  that  it  is  "at  once 
Romantic  and  Classic;  Eomantic  in  its  decor  and  in 
the  bravura  of  the  black  shadows  and  orange-coloured 
lights  that  shift  and  quarrel  on  this  ivory  flesh,  and 
Greek  in  the  severity  of  an  innocence  that  knows  no 
shame."  Such  was  Sophy  in  Paris  at  nineteen,  and  in 
JiJvol  at  twenty -nine. 

Evelyn  got  up  from  his  table  strewn  with  manu- 
script. She  heard  him  moving  across  the  floor  and 
sitting  down  to  the  piano.  Sounds  stole  out  like  the 
rustling  of  wet  leaves,  a  dew  of  music — the  prelude 
to  the  fifth  Act  of  Glair  de  Lune  .  .  .  From  it  he  glided 
into  colder  intricacies  of  Northern  harmony,  the  snor- 
ing ripple  of  tides  on  a  shelving  beach,  crossed  at 
intervals  by  great  chords  that  had  in  them  the  harsh- 
ness of  a  winter  wind,  plangent  and  melancholy. 
Sophy  had  been  too  long  and  sternly  trained  to 
commit  the  indiscretion  of  asking  "What's  that?" 
She  was  rewarded  for  her  self-restraint. 

"Le  marin  pres  la  meule,"  Evelyn  called  out  to  her. 
"Swedish." 

"Lovely !"  said  Sophy  with  an  immense  sigh. 

Then  Evelyn  began  to  sing  in  his  light,  silken  tenor, 
a  slight  voice  but  of  agreeable  quality,  and  irreproach- 
able in  time,  tune,  and  taste : 

"J'entends  dans  le  bocage 
Le  rossignol  joli, 
Qui  dit  dans  son  langage, 
'Les  maries  sont  unis. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  267 

II  n'y  a  pas  de  jour  si  beau 
Que  le  jour  du  mariage. 
II  n'y  a  pas  de  jour  si  beau 
Que  le  jour  du  mariage.' 

Vous  1'entendez,  Madame, 

Au  milieu  des  plaisirs, 

De  ce  jour  plein  de  charmes 

Depend  votre  avenir. 

Si  le  chagrin  et  les  ennuis 

Vous  tourmentent  dans  le  monde, 

Vous  aurez  pour  vous  un  ami, 

Vous  souffrirez  moins  ensemble." 

The  last  Terse  was  interrupted  by  a  crash  of  thunder 
which  came  rolling  down  out  of  the  mountains  and 
made  the  very  wires  of  the  piano  vibrate.  Evelyn 
shut  the  lid  and  came  to  the  open  doorway.  "Oh- 
la-la !  yes,  that's  quite  a  good  sky.  We  get  thunder 
every  ten  days  up  here  in  the  summertime."  He  sat 
down  by  her  and  lapsed  into  a  companionable  silence. 

Their  world  was  split  into  two  halves.  Overhead 
the  North  was  blue,  the  sapphire  blue  of  a  French 
summer  evening,  and  the  hillside  clothed  in  cistus  and 
ilex  and  fir  forest,  and  the  alders  and  acacias  that 
shaded  Evelyn's  tributary  brook,  rose  up  in  a  fine 
tracery  of  green  and  silver  on  azure,  every  spray 
glowing  in  the  clarity  of  moist  air;  but  South  over 
the  valley  and  the  Pyrenean  chain  hung  a  tremendous 
rain-storm,  a  medley  of  black  and  white  clouds  rimmed 
and  shot  with  bronze.  The  setting  sun  burst  through 
them  flinging  down  white  rays  which  smote  the  hills 
like  a  swordstroke.  Where  it  fell,  cliff  and  sward 


268  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

shone  out  in  patches  of  light  as  green  as  verdigris; 
where  its  shadow  fell,  every  rocky  tower  was  as  black 
as  basalt  but  for  an  occasional  vein  of  snow,  while 
the  glens  were  drowned  in  wild  glooms  of  red  or  iron- 
colour.  Moment  by  moment  lightning  flickered  in 
broad  gleams  not  far  off,  and  the  claps  of  thunder 
were  so  loud  that  one  would  have  thought  they  came 
out  of  the  crags;  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  mere 
air  and  water  could  generate  such  solid  and  shattering 
noises.  And,  while  Evol  glittered  in  evening  gold, 
there  was  among  the  opposite  heights,  between  broken 
ladders  and  shafts  of  glory  tilted  by  some  strange 
effect  of  refraction  into  different  angles,  one  long  rift 
where  rain  was  falling  in  a  great  brown  curtain 
scarfed  by  an  arc  of  iris. 

"D'you  enjoy  a  storm,  Charles?" 
"Yes,"  said  Evelyn  contentedly.  "Don't  you?" 
"S'long  as  I'm  not  alone  I  don't  mind,"  replied  the 
candid  Sophy.  Evelyn  laughed  and  took  her  hand  for 
consolation  as  lightly  as  a  child's.  But  it  was  no 
child's  hand  that  turned  over  and  nestled  into  his 
clasp,  warm  fingers  enlacing  his  fingers  and  soft  palm 
pressed  to  his  palm.  Evelyn  sat  still  but  with  an 
effort.  Her  touch  affected  him  in  some  nameless  way, 
as  scents  will  now  and  then,  or  sounds :  the  same  scent 
as  used  to  come  in  long  ago  at  one's  bedroom  window 
when  the  limes  were  out,  or  the  noise  of  a  door  that 
shuts  with  exactly  the  same  slam  and  brassy  rattle  of 
its  handle  as  the  landing  door  "at  home."  Such 
associations  cannot  always  be  tracked  to  covert,  and 
even  so  Sophy  brought  Evelyn  to  the  brink  of  a 
memory,  and  left  him  there.  Or  was  it  not  a  memory 
at  all — not  a  refrain  out  of  his  past,  but  a  prelude  of 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  269 

days  to  come?  It  teased  him  by  its  vagueness:  and 
yet  there  was  pleasure  in  it. 

Sophy  dragged  her  hand  away  and  propped  her  chin 
on  her  doubled  fists.  "Look,  it's  raining  like  the  devil 
over  there  and  all  down  by  Kia.  I  declare  the  river's 
rising  already!  It's  whiter  and  louder  than  it  was 
half  an  hour  ago."  She  nodded  towards  the  torrent 
in  the  ravine,  fifteen  hundred  feet  below.  "I  suppose 
now  you'd  like  to  run  down  and  bathe  in  it." 

"No  fear.  But  I  shouldn't  mind  being  up  on  top 
under  that  rainbow.  Jolly  showerbath,  all  pink  and 
blue." 

"Yes,  and  get  struck  by  lightning !  I  want  to  die  in 
my  bed  when  I  do  die.  It's  bad  enough  at  the  best  of 
times.  Aren't  you  awfully  afraid  of  death?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"What's  the  use?  One  might  be  if  one  saw  one's 
way  to  dodging  it :  but  as  we've  all  done  it,  or  shall 
have  to  do  it,  why  funk?" 

"Silly  old  thing!" 

For  Sophy  knew  how  to  draw  a  man  on.  Under 
such  bracing  comment  Evelyn  was  happy  to  air  his 
simple  philosophy.  "Look  at  all  the  fellows  who  were 
killed  in  the  war,  young  men  with  their  lives  before 
them,  boys  fresli  from  school  and  shot  in  their  first 
fight :  the  first  time  I  saw  a  lot  of  dead  men  together 
was  the  last  time  I  bothered  my  head  about  death. 
One  lost  the  sense  of  loneliness.  It  would  only  have 
been  like  going  over  to  join  one's  friends.  I've  heard 
other  men  say  the  same  thing — civilians  too." 

"'Everybody's  doing  it.'"  Sophy  smiled.  'The 
air  was  so  thick  with  ghosts  they  kept  one  another 


270  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

company.     Didn't  you  mind  the  war  much,  then?" 

"Bather!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  didn't  like  being  dirty,  and  I  didn't  like 
being  tired,  and  I  couldn't  stand  the  noise  of  the  guns : 
and  I  was  most  dreadfully  frightened,"  Evelyn  added, 
"all  the  time.  No,  not  of  death,  but  of  dying.  <Mal- 
heureusement,  pour  etre  mort,  il  faut  mourir.'  Or 
spoiling  my  hands  so  that  I  couldn't  play  any  more. 
I  never  did  run  away  but  I  always  wanted  to." 

"Most  fellows  did.  I  knew  a  man  once,  not  very 
young  he  wasn't,  it  was  when  I  was  in  Paris :  well,  he 
was  mj  lover  if  you  want  to  know.  I  wasn't  exactly 
fond  of  him,  but  I  let  him  because  I  was  so  sorry  for 
him.  He  cried  in  my  arms  half  the  night.  Yes,  it 
was  creepy,  but  I  didn't  mind  because  I  could  feel  it 
did  him  good  to  be  with  some  one  that  he  didn't  have 
to  be  ashamed  before.  He's  a  K.  C.  B.  now."  She 
remained  silent  for  a  little  time  while  the  lightning 
thrust  and  thrust  again  its  crooked  steel  blade  among 
the  sun-sprinkled  peaks.  "That  storm's  coming  up.  I 
hope  it  won't  rain  to-morrow  if  I've  got  to  go  down 
to  Ria  in  one  of  those  canvas  carts.  I  don't  much 
want  to  move  on.  It's  been  so  jolly  here.  But  you 
want  me  to  clear  out,  don't  you?  I  don't  blame  you, 
with  your  wife  at  Perpignan !  There'd  be  the  devil 
of  a  row  if  Mr.  Dent  came  up  again  and  caught  me 
here.  Funny,  wouldn't  it  be?  I  think  I  shall  go 
back  to  Paris." 

"To  Paris?    Why?" 

"Because  I'm  sick  of  London.  There's  no  one  there 
I  much  care  for  now  you're  over  here  and  Wright  and 
Hurst  are  gone  to  Ireland.  I'd  like  to  have  some  jolly 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  271 

times  again  like  I  used  to  have,  before  I  get  old  and 
lose  my  looks." 

"Don't  go  back  to  Paris,  Sophy." 

"Why  not?"  said  Sophy  defiantly.  "Being  good 
doesn't  pay." 

"Thank  the  Lord,  no!"  Evelyn  nmrnmred.  <fWhy 
should  one  bother  with  it  if  it  did?  But  it's  like  the 
race  in  Alice  in  Wonderland,  you  don't  get  any  prize 
except  your  own  thimble  back  again :  not  in  this  life 
at  all  events.  In  the  next,  if  there  is  one,  who  knows? 
perhaps  the  revelation  of  the  heart  of  God.  .  .  .  And 
then  'they  shall  sit  in  the  orchestra  and  noblest  seats 
of  heaven,  that  have  held  up  shaking  hands  in  the  fire 
and  humanly  contended  for  glory.'  " 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  religious,"  faltered  Sophy, 
when  she  could  get  her  breath.  She  was  utterly 
astonished  and  awestruck. 

"I'm  not,  I'm  not!  .  .  .  but  I  rather  wish  I  were. 
One  of  these  days  I  should  like  to  write  a  Passion. 
But  I'm  too  young  yet.  Still  I've  written  some  church 
music  that  wasn't  bad.  Years  ago,  when  I  was  at 
Queens',  I  wrote  a  Magnificat  and  Nunc  Dimittis  that 
I  rather  like,  they  sing  them  in  King's  College  Chapel : 
most  English  services  bang  into  the  major  for  the 
Gloria,  bim-boum,  an  awful  noise,  but  I  made  mine  all 
quiet  and  golden  as  if  the  heavenly  choirs  were  singing 
under  their  breath.  I  mean  I  tried  to.  Sophy  dear, 
don't  go  to  Paris." 

"I  never  will,  Eve." 

"Thank  you." 

Silence  fell  again — if  it  could  be  called  a  silence 
which  was  so  full  of  inanimate  noises:  Evelyn  con- 
tentedly working  out  in  his  head  the  last  ten  bars  of 


272  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

his  Prelude,  and  Sophy  brooding  over  Evelyn's  good- 
ness, which  seemed  to  her  quite  superhuman.  It  was 
at  all  events  free  from  self -consciousness.  Her  threat 
had  made  him  feel  distressed  and  ashamed,  but  now 
that  she  had  given  him  her  word  he  returned  happily, 
secure  in  it,  to  Glair  de  Lune.  And  meanwhile  from 
under  her  long  lashes  Sophy  watched  him  with  a  smile 
full  of  pity  and  love  and  mockery.  Men  were  so 
innocent!  He  was  not  thinking  of  her  any  more. 
After  extorting  that  promise  he  had  relapsed  into  his 
own  thoughts,  not  caring  to  ask  what  life  it  left  for 
her. 

"I'm  glad  I  came,  though  it's  a  long  way  to  come 
for  a  couple  of  days.  Still  I've  enjoyed  it.  I've  liked 
seeing  you.  Say  you've  liked  seeing  me — you'll  miss 
me,  a  little?  You'll  miss  my  omelettes,  won't 
you?" 

"I  shall  miss  you  most  awfully.  It's  odd,  but  I  never 
seem  to  mind  you,"  Evelyn  added  naively,  "not  even 
when  I'm  working." 

"Not  so  much  as  Mr.  Dent?" 

"Oh,  I  minded  old  George  like  anything!  I  was 
immensely  pleased  to  see  him,  but  he  blocked  up  all 
my  sunlight." 

"Moonlight,"  amended  Sophy.  "D'you  know,  Eve, 
I  often  think  there's  a  sym — sym — symbolicalification, 
well,  you  know  what  I  mean,  between  you  and  Clair  de 
Jjune.  You've  lived  in  moonlight  all  your  life." 

"What's  that?"  said  Evelyn,  disturbed.  "It  sounds 
rude." 

"Never  mind.  Oh  I  say,  what  a  flash !  It  looked 
right  overhead."  She  jumped  up.  "Let's  go  in- 
doors." 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  273 

Indulgent  of  her  whims,  Evelyn  followed  her  in. 
"Bad  little  storm,  isn't  it?  Cheer  up,  let's  turn  our 
backs  on  it,  all  the  naughty  weather."  He  closed  the 
door  just  as  the  first  great  gust  of  wind  came  rushing 
up  out  of  the  ravine  and  shook  through  the  house  like 
thunder.  "Better  lock  it,"  said  Evelyn.  "It  doesn't 
fasten  well  and  I  can't  have  my  music  blowing  all 
over  the  room.  Now  shall  we  shut  the  shutters  up 
and  light  the  lamp  and  be  cosy?"  He  hasped  the  sun- 
shutters  over  the  only  window.  After  the  gold  and 
silver  glare  of  storm  and  sunset,  the  room  for  their 
dazzled  eyes  was  instantly  plunged  into  midnight. 
"Now  where  the  mischief  did  I  put  those  matches?" 

"Here." 

"Where?" 

"Here  in  my  hand." 

Evelyn  felt  for  Sophy  in  the  gloom.  "Is  that 
you? — Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Thanks." 

He  lit  the  lamp. 

Sophy  glanced  at  him  furtively.  She  could  read 
Edmund  Meredith  like  a  book,  but  Evelyn,  so  trans- 
parent, so  careless,  often  puzzled  her.  That  moment 
in  the  dark  had  struck  out  an  electric  sparkle,  but  what 
it  meant,  or  what  kind  of  contact  it  was  that  had  been 
completed  when  he  touched  her,  she  failed  to  under- 
stand. At  all  events  it  was  new — it  had  not  happened 
before  in  her  experience  of  Evelyn :  and  it  had  ruffled 
him:  in  the  sallow  lamplight  she  saw  that  he  was 
frowning  and  his  face  was  pale.  Its  effect  on  Sophy, 
who  was  not  easily  embarrassed,  was  to  make  her  feel 
keenly  conscious  of  herself  and  to  put  her  to  shame. 
She  picked  up  her  stockings,  which  were  still  lying 
across  a  chair  where  she  had  tossed  them  that  morning 


274  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

when  she  first  went  out  over  the  dew-pearled,  dawn- 
cool  turf,  and  moved  shyly  towards  the  staircase. 

"Don't  put  your  stockings  on,"  said  Evelyn. 

"Why  not?" 

"Pretty  feet." 

"Rats !"  said  Sophy.  She  stood  in  the  doorway,  un- 
decided. Again  after  a  dead  lull  a  roaring  torrent  of 
wind  gushed  out,  fell  on  their  south  wall  like  a  shock 
of  water,  and  went  wailing  away  up  into  the  hills; 
while  through  the  narrow,  deepset  kitchen  window 
there  came  in  the  reflection  of  a  flame  of  lightning 
that  seemed  to  play  over  the  furniture  and  dimmed 
the  lamp  and  quenched  the  northern  blue.  Sophy, 
scared,  came  hurriedly  back,  shutting  the  door  behind 
her  and  dropping  her  stockings  on  the  floor.  There 
was  no  valour  in  her,  none  of  the  strength  to  make 
a  martyr:  she  was  infinitely  more  frightened  of  the 
storm  than  of  Evelyn.  After  all,  she  reflected  with 
her  rather  mocking  smile,  the  smile  of  a  gamin  of 
Paris,  why  should  she  run  away  from  Evelyn?  What 
more  could  he  ask  of  her  than  she  had  come  to  Evol 
to  offer  him? 

Sophy  was  always  frank  with  herself.  She  had 
come  to  £vol  to  offer  Evelyn  her  beauty  and  her  love, 
not  out  of  pity,  as  in  the  case  of  the  lover  who  was 
now  a  K.  C.  B.,  but  for  love's  own  sake.  It  was  only 
since  she  had  seen  him  again,  and  had  fallen  under 
the  fascination  which  he  unconsciously  exercised  over 
her,  that  she  had  begun  to  falter  and  feel  shy.  She 
flung  off  her  fanciful  constraint  now  and  sat  down  by 
the  wide  brick  hearth,  listening  to  the  noises  of  the 
rising  gale,  "like  swallows  in  a  chimney,"  and  giving 
up  her  soul  to  the  sweetness  of  this  companionship 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  275 

in  solitude,  though  it  was  only  an  hour  snatched  from 
between  two  wastes  of  desolation.  Her  feet  were  bare 
on  the  worn  floor  of  chestnut-wood,  polished  smooth 
by  generations  of  string-soled  slippers,  but  there  was 
no  chill  in  it;  everything  in  the  room  was  warm  to 
the  touch,  with  the  dry  indoor  warmth  of  a  Pyrenean 
summer,  bone-warm  beyond  reach  of  bad  weather. 
But  the  summer's  heat  was  not  so  warm,  so  soft,  so 
kindly  as  Sophy's  love. 

Evelyn  leant  against  the  table  watching  her — this 
bit  of  driftwood  that  had  been  thrown  at  his  door. 
That  had  been  a  strange  moment  when  he  touched 
her  in  the  dark ;  he  had  felt  then  through  his  senses, 
what  hitherto  he  had  scarcely  even  realised  with  his 
mind,  that  she  was  his — a  discovery  which  the  coldest 
man  cannot  make  about  the  plainest  woman  without 
emotion;  and  Sophy  was  not  plain.  Hers  was  that 
structural  beauty  which  age  cannot  wither;  one  could 
imagine  that  when  she  grew  old  men  would  still  desire 
to  kiss  the  slight  feet,  fine  as  if  carved  out  of  ivory, 
immobile  in  repose  from  her  long  training  as  a  model, 
and  yet  an  incarnation  of  running,  dancing  life.  Had 
they  danced  their  way  into  Evelyn's  heart?  The 
question  crossing  his  mind  filled  him  with  dismay. 
He  could  not  answer  it  because  he  was  one  of  those 
men  who  never  can  analyse  the  springs  of  sensation, 
but  his  sensations  themselves  were  vivid  enough,  and 
he  knew  that  when  he  touched  her  in  the  dark  he  had 
never  felt  his  manhood  so  strong  in  him  before. 

"Here  comes  the  rain,"  said  Sophy. 

It  came  on  the  wings  of  the  wind :  the  dash  of  it  on 
their  glass  was  like  hailstones :  the  whole  house  shook 
and  strained.  Every  door  rattled,  every  lock  creaked, 


276  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

by  sash  and  keyhole  and  down  the  wide  chimney  went 
whistling  draughts  that  set  the  lamp  jumping  and 
fluttered  the  heavy  manuscript  of  Evelyn's  orchestral 
score.  The  flare  of  lightning  was  almost  uninter- 
mittent  and  displaced  the  lingering  sunset  glow  behind 
the  window-frame. 

"I'm  glad  we  aren't  out  in  it,"  said  Evelyn. 
"There's  not  much  cover  between  this  and  Ria.  Lord, 
how  the  lightning  stares  through  the  chinks  in  the 
shutters !  Suppose  you  can't  get  on  to-morrow  after 
all?  It  doesn't  take  much  to  bring  down  a  fall  of 
rock  over  that  Ria  road,  and  if — Hallo !" 

"What's  that?"  cried  Sophy,  starting  forward  in 
her  chair. 

"Some  one  coming  up  the  steps — or  was  it  only  the 
wind?" 

There  came  a  murmur  of  voices  followed  by  a  loud 
knock  at  the  door.  "Wayfarers,  as  I  live,"  said  Eve- 
lyn, springing  up.  "Poor  wretches,  they  must  be  half 
drowned !  Fly  away  upstairs,  Sophy,  I  shall  have  to 
let  them  in  and  you  mustn't  be  seen." 

Sophy  was  already  in  retreat,  halfway  up  the  wind- 
ing stair.  But  she  lingered  at  the  turn  of  it  to  listen 
while  Evelyn  opened  the  door.  "Come  in  then,  my 
friends,"  she  heard  him  say — and  then  silence:  a 
sudden,  sharp,  breathless  silence.  Sophy,  peering 
down  in  great  curiosity,  could  not  see  the  men  on  the 
doorstep  nor  they  her,  but  an  appalling  suspicion 
rushed  over  her  as  soon  as  she  felt  the  quality  of 
Evelyn's  silence.  It  meant  utter  surprise  if  not  dis- 
may. 

"Let  us  in,  old  man !  we're  getting  wet  through." 

"But  come  in  of  course!"  said  Evelyn.     "I  didn't 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  277 

mean  to  bar  you  out,  only  I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes. 
Have  you  walked  from  Ria  to-night?"  They  could  not 
have  come  from  any  other  direction  except  by  aero- 
plane, but  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying. 
"Has  it  been  raining  all  the  way?" 

"No,  it  only  came  on  ten  minutes  ago.  Didn't  you 
hear  it?  you  must  have  been  asleep !" 

"No,  but — I  shut  out  the  storm."  He  barely  saved 
himself  from  saying  we.  "Sit  down,  won't  you, 
George?"  He  pulled  up  for  Dent  the  chair  that  Sophy 
had  been  sitting  in,  still  warm  from  her  body.  "And 
you,  Meredith  .  .  ." 

Evelyn  was  not  one  of  those  fortunate  gentlemen 
who  are  equal  to  any  crisis.  -He  had  not  seen  Mere- 
dith since  before  the  parting  from  Kitty  in  Chelsoa, 
and  his  anger,  which  had  died  down  into  red  embers 
of  resentment,  leapt  up  into  flame  again  as  the  memory 
of  that  night  rushed  over  him — but  it  was  tempered  by 
dismay.  At  the  bare  thought  of  Sophy's  being  dis- 
covered by  Dent  he  would  have  liked  to  get  under  the 
table.  "But,  George,"  he  burst  out,  too  terrified  to 
be  hospitable  or  even  discreet,  "what  on  earth  have 
you  come  up  here  again  for?" 

"Gently,  gently,  old  fellow,"  Dent  patted  him  on 
the  arm.  "Meredith's  got  something  to  say  to  you. 
Now  you  go  ahead,  Meredith,  I'll  see  fair  play." 

Meredith  had  remained  standing,  a  big  powerful 
figure  in  his  heavy  tweeds,  wet  from  head  to  foot  but 
obviously  indifferent  to  rough  weather:  overtopping 
Evelyn  in  height  by  a  head  and  shoulders — and  in 
moral  force  by  the  old  goodhumoured  condescension 
of  trained  manner  and  firm  will.  On  his  way  up  from 
Ria  he  had  not  liked  the  look  of  the  situation — not  at 


278  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

all!  but  now  face  to  face  with  Evelyn  he  suddenly 
found  himself  able  to  take  command  of  it.  Ue 
measured  Evelyn  with  his  keen  eye  and  perceived 
that  he  was  exceedingly  confused  and  nervous.  This 
weakness  was  characteristic  of  the  Evelyn  of  Chelsea 
and  helped  to  put  Meredith  at  ease  and  to  banish  that 
persistent  doubt.  .  .  .  He  went  up  to  Evelyn  and  held 
out  his  hand,  and  Evelyn,  whose  fingers  itched  to 
knock  him  down,  was  instantly  hypnotised  into  taking 
it.  Why?  Meredith  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in 
assigning  a  reason.  It  was  the  moral  domination  of 
the  weak  by  the  strong — not  to  say  of  conscious  guilt 
by  conscious  rectitude. 

"Sit  down,  Evelyn."  Evelyn  sat  down.  '  It  was  his 
own  house,  but  he  sat  down  when  told  to  do  so  by 
Meredith.  "Better  come  to  the  point  at  once,  as  Dent 
says.  You  will  guess  that  I  didn't  take  this  journey 
to  admire  the  scenery.  I  have  something  very  diffi- 
cult and  disagreeable  to  say  to  you,  but  I  may  as  well 
warn  you  at  the  outset  that  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel 
with  you  or  let  you  quarrel  with  me.  Dent  and  I  are 
agreed  that  when  four  people" — Evelyn  started — 
"four  people  are  placed  as  we  are,  perfect  honesty  is 
not  only  the  wisest  and  safest  but  the  most  honourable 
way  out.  So  now  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  seem  to 
intrude  on  private  affairs  of  yours  which  are  no 
concern  of  mine.  They  are  my  concern  because — sit 
still — I  love  your  wife." 

Evelyn  sat  still :  but  his  confusion  had  begun  to  lift. 
He  felt  so  curious  to  learn  what  would  come  of  this 
preamble  that  he  almost  forgot  Sophy's  damning  pres- 
ence overhead. 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  279 

"If  I  had  had  the  chance  of  it  before  she  married 
you — " 

"One  moment.     Does  she  know  you're  here?" 

"She  sent  me." 

"She  did?— Well:  go  on." 

" — I  should  have  done  my  best  to  save  her  from  that 
disastrous  mistake.  I  did  not:  and  the  mischief  is, 
partly,  irreparable.  But  you're  not  living  with  her. 
I  don't  know,  nor  does  Dent,  what  led  to  your  sepa- 
ration, but  it  seems  to  be  permanent:  you've  just 
refused  to  return  to  her.  Will  you  allow  me  to  put 
before  you  the  obvious  aspect  of  your  conduct — the 
view  of  it  that  would  strike  an  average  casual  observer 
with  no  inside  information?"  Evelyn  was  incapable 
of  reply.  He  had  begun  to  feel  like  a  patient  in  a 
dentist's  chair.  "Then  I  say,"  Meredith  continued 
firmly,  "that,  whoever  was  wrong  thirteen  months 
ago,  you're  wrong  now.  I  am  oldfashioned  enough  to 
share  Dent's  view  that  between  husband  and  wife  there 
ought  to  be  no  question  of  wrongs  and  rights." 

"I  wish  I  weren't  in  flannels." 

"You  wish— what?" 

"I  can't  cope  with  you  in  those  tweeds,"  Evelyn 
explained.  "Morally,  I  mean.  They  give  you  an  un- 
fair advantage." 

Meredith  was  not  to  be  put  off  by  this  puerile 
irrelevance.  He  had  got  into  his  stride  now  and  was 
enjoying  it. 

"Your  duty  is  clear.  If  your  wife  asks  you  to  return 
to  her,  you  ought  to  go." 

It  was  too  much.  "Thank  you,"  said  Evelyn,  rous- 
ing himself,  "your  advice  is  excellent,  I  dare  say,  but 
it  is  an  infernal  impertinence  for  you  to  offer  it.  I'll 


280  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

deal  with  my  wife  direct  but  not  through  you  or  even 
George  here." 

"But  your  wife  isn't  anxious  to  deal  with  you 
direct,"  retorted  Meredith  drily,  "and  if  she  prefers  to 
send  a  commissioner  you  must  face  him,  however  dis- 
tasteful you  may  find  the  process.  You  can't  run 
away.  For  our  old  friendship's  sake  I'll  make  it  as 
easy  for  you  as  possible,  but  one  thing  I'm  determined 
on,  and  that's  to  have  the  truth  out  of  you  before  I 
return  to  K —  to  Perpignan.  The  issue  is  clear 
between  us.  Will  you  return  to  her?  you  won't — 
you've  already  refused.  I've  warned  you  where  your 
duty  lies,  but  you  shirk  it.  So  be  it :  but  in  that  case 
you  mustn't  complain  if  your  wife  claims  her  freedom 
to  rearrange  her  life  as  you're  rearranging  yours. 
Have  you  ever  realised  how  tragic  her  position  is — 
a  young  and  beautiful  woman  left  stranded  with 
empty  hands?  It's  because  a  woman  of  such  force  and 
vitality  as  hers  is  unfit  to  live  out  her  life  under  such 
conditions,  that  I've  offered  her  a  chance  to  rearrange 
it.  Now  don't  misunderstand  me,"  as  the  patient 
showed  galvanic  symptoms  of  activity:  "Kitty  and  I 
aren't,  as  the  phrase  goes,  blinded  by  passion.  We're 
simply  determined  to  do  in  cold  blood  a  necessary  bit 
of  reconstruction.  The  first  steps  will  be  difficult  and 
dirty,  but  the  discomfort  of  an  initial  irregularity  is 
worth  facing  for  all  we  have  to  gain." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at,  Meredith? 
you're  not  going  to  run  off  with  Kitty,  are  you?" 

"I  hope  to  take  her  from  you." 

"Then  why  the  devil,"  Evelyn  broke  out  furiously, 
"do  you  come  to  me?  You  don't  want  my  blessing  I 
suppose?" 


GLAIR  DE  LUKE  281 

"Not  precisely,  my  dear  Evelyn :  but  I  want  your 
assistance." 

"You  confounded,  cold-blooded  sc — " 

"Shut  up,  Eve,"  Dent  hastily  interrupted:  "and 
drop  it,  you,  Meredith:  why  can't  you  come  to  the 
point?  Meredith  always  will  talk  through  his  hat. 
He  isn't  going  to  run  off  with  Kitty.  What  he  wants 
is  for  her  to  divorce  you  and  marry  him.  So  far  as 
his  lights  go  he's  acting  straightforwardly  and  has 
her  backing  and  mine.  Not  that  I  want  her  to  marry 
him :  on  the  contrary,  it'll  be  the  blackest  day  of  my 
life  if  she  does.  But  in  coming  to  you  to-night  I  do 
back  him,  for  you've  behaved  pretty  foolishly,  and 
anyone  that  didn't  know  you  as  well  as  I  do  might  say 
badly  too.  I'll  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  don't 
much  blame  Meredith  for  wanting  Kitty.  It's  true 
that  she's  unhappy :  and  as  for  you,  my  dear  old  chap, 
you  can't  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too!  If  you  don't 
look  after  your  wife  other  men  will.  Now  Meredith." 

Meredith  could  be  succinct  when  he  liked.  Under 
the  roof  of  his  father  the  K.  C.  he  had  picked  up  some 
useful  tips  for  a  cross-examination,  and  he  knew  the 
value  of  taking  a  nervous  witness  by  surprise. 

"What  have  you  done  with  Sophy  Carter?" 

"Sophy?" 

The  blood  rushed  up  into  Evelyn's  pale  face.  "I— 
I  don't  understand  you." 

"She  was  your  mistress  before  you  married  Kitty." 

"No !     That  she  never  was." 

"So  you  told  me  before,  and  I  believed  you,  but  I 
know  better  now.  She  was  your  mistress  when  Kitty 
was  your  wife:  while  you  were  all  living  under  one 
roof." 


282  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

"That  is  a  lie,"  said  Evelyn,  scarlet. 

"And  since  you  ran  away  from  your  wife  you've 
returned  to  her,  or  she  to  you.  Yes,  you're  innocent, 
aren't  you?"  He  laughed.  "You  look  it." 

Dent  half  rose.  "I'll  have  no  bullying,  Meredith — " 
he  began,  and  then  sat  down  again.  With  the  best 
will  in  the  world,  it  was  impossible  to  read  indignant 
innocence  into  Evelyn's  face.  He  looked  unutterably 
confused  and  guilty :  as  wTas  scarcely  to  be  wondered 
at,  since  Sophy,  through  the  cracks  in  the  worn  floor- 
ing, could  hear  every  word  they  said. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  find  out  that  I — that  she — 
It's  not  true,  not  one  syllable  of  it,  George!  but  how 
did  you — " 

"Find  out  that  it  wasn't  true?"  Meredith's  tone  was 
goodhumoured  in  its  contempt.  He  had  expected 
Evelyn  to  put  up  a  better  fight,  and  was  relieved  but 
faintly  disappointed :  it  is  poor  sport  to  shoot  a  sitting 
hen.  "From  Millerand.  I  asked  him  where  you  were 
and  he  referred  me  to  Sophy.  It  was  as  clear  to  him 
as  it  was  to  me  that  you  wouldn't  have  entrusted  your 
money  affairs  to  a  lady  of  Sophy's  calling  unless  you 
had  the  best  of  reasons  for  counting  on  her  good  will. 
Disinterested  honesty  isn't  the  rule  in  that  class." 
Evelyn  writhed.  He  dared  not  bid  Meredith  lower  his 
voice.  "I  then  went  to  Sophy's  rooms,  where  I  got 
your  address — " 

"From—?" 

"Fifine :  she  had  seen  it  on  a  letter.  From  her  I  also 
learnt  that  Sophy  had  left  England  to  join  you.  My 
good  chap,  don't  you  know  that  girls  like  Sophy  always 
talk  to  their  maids?" 

Evelyn  went  to  the  window,  flung  open  the  shutter, 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  283 

and  leaned  his  arms  on  the  sill.  It  had  grown  dark 
during  the  last  half-hour,  for  the  sun  had  gone  down 
behind  the  Pyrenean  sierras,  and  immense  clouds, 
turbulent  and  swollen,  had  come  up  over  the  whole 
sky,  blackening  the  landscape  under  their  wings.  The 
lightning-flashes  had  grown  rarer,  quenched  in  drench- 
ing rain;  every  hillside  streamed  with  water,  every 
cranny  was  a  torrent,  every  lip  of  rock  a  spout ;  dim 
in  the  valley  bottom  the  river  went  roaring  down  in 
a  spate  of  snow.  And,  like  the  dying  storm,  passion 
in  Evelyn  had  begun  to  die  down  into  sadness.  What 
a  wreck  he  and  Kitty  had  made  of  their  marriage! 
and  he  had  meant  so  well  when  he  married  her.  Clear 
sunlit  moments  of  their  life  together  floated  back  to 
him — Kitty  in  the  railway  carriage  lifting  down  her 
chinchilla  scarf,  Kitty's  inimitable  courage  under  her 
bright  blush,  Kitty's  thick  fair  hair  blown  across  his 
eyes.  And  now  .  .  . 

What  right  had  he  to  be  angry  with  Meredith  for 
misjudging  him?  None:  his  own  indiscretion  had 
been  very  great.  WThat  right  even  to  resent  the 
relations  that  apparently  existed  between  Meredith 
and  Kitty?  None — it  was  as  natural  for  Meredith 
to  desire  Kitty's  love  as  for  Kitty  to  desire  her 
freedom.  And  fantastically  he  found  himself  for  a 
moment  almost  regretting  that  no  freedom  was 
possible  for  her,  almost  sharing  her  disappointment, 
yes,  and  Meredith's  too.  Meredith  thought  Evelyn 
weak:  and  so  he  was,  if  it  is  weak  to  shrink  from 
giving  pain  even  to  an  enemy.  His  delicacy  was  the 
more  unwilling  to  wound  Meredith  because  it  had  felt 
every  shade  of  insolence  in  Meredith's  manner  to  him. 

He  turned  round  from  the  window.     "I  am  most 


284  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

awfully  sorry  for  all  this,  Meredith.  Sorry  I  lost  my 
temper.  You've  come  up  here  to  tell  me  how  fond 
you  are  of  Kitty,  and  to  ask  me  if  I've  forfeited  my 
right  to  her,  because  we  used  to  be  friends  and  you 
don't  want  to  do  anything  underhand.  I  do  thank 
you  for  being  so  honest  with  me.  But,  you  see,  there's 
nothing  in  it  after  all !  I  suppose  to  a  Frenchman  like 
Millerand  it  must  seem  strange  that  Sophy  and  I 
should  be  simply  friends,  the  best  of  friends,  and 
nothing  more,  but  so  it  is — I  wrote  to  her  because  she 
knows  Millerand  and  because  she  was  the  only  person 
I  could  think  of  that  was  safe  not  to  give  me  away. 
I'd  have  written  to  Dimmie  only  that  I  knew  Kitty  can 
wind  him  round  her  finger.  Or  to  you  if — if — It's 
true  what  I  told  George  on  Wednesday,  I  never  have 
given  Kitty  the  chance  of  a  divorce:  never,  on  my 
honour !" 

"Will  you  swear  it?" 

For  the  second  time  he  made  Evelyn  turn  scarlet. 
Dent  interposed. 

"It's  easy  to  see  you're  a  lawyer's  son,  Meredith. 
Eve's  word  is  good  enough  for  me  and  Kitty." 

"But  not  for  Meredith.  He  has  no  title  to  be 
answered,  but  I  choose  to  answer  him,"  said  Evelyn 
haughtily.  "Yes,  I  swear  it." 

"Prove  it." 

"How?" 

"Let  me,  or  let  Dent  if  you  prefer  it,  search  the 
place." 

Extreme  and  imminent  danger,  which  unnerves 
many  men,  gave  Evelyn  boldness.  Like  lightning 
came  his  counter-stroke.  "Surely  you  don't  imagine 
that  I  have  her  hidden  on  the  premises?  What  an 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  285 

absurdity !  Search  it  if  you  like,  but  I  can  give  you 
plainer  proof  than  that.  Because  I  owe  you  some 
kindness  in  the  past,"  he  crossed  to  the  hearth,  "read 
this :  it's  Sophy's  last  letter  to  me."  It  was  lying  on 
the  chimneypiece.  Meredith's  face  darkened  strange- 
ly as  he  turned  over  the  envelope.  "Notice  the  date : 
by  the  postmark  you'll  see  it  wasn't  posted  till  the 
fourteenth,  barely  a  week  ago.  Does  it  sound  as  if 
I  were  her  lover?  Read  it  aloud:  Dent  had  better 
know  what's  in  it,  and  I'm  certain  that  he  never  will 
read  it  for  himself." 

It  was  the  letter  that  Meredith  had  found  in  Sophy's 
bureau,  and  which  Josephine,  after  his  departure,  had 
put  into  the  post.  He  recognised  the  envelope  at  a 
glance,  but  he  dared  not  dispute  it,  for  his  hands  were 
tied  by  his  own  behaviour — he  could  not  say  "I  myself 
found  this  letter  in  Sophy's  locked  drawer  after  she 
was  gone."  And  throbbing  with  anger  he  had  to  read 
it  out  in  his  cold,  indifferent  voice,  a  piece  of  evidence 
which  if  it  had  not  happened  to  be  worthless  would 
have  been  conclusive,  for  it  certainly  was  not  the  letter 
of  a  woman  to  her  lover;  from  the  "Dear  Charles"  to 
the  "Yours  affectionately,  Sophy,"  there  was  scarcely 
a  word  in  it  but  practical  business  detail  of  her  deal- 
ings with  Millerand,  past  and  to  come.  Dimsdale 
Smith  himself  could  not  have  written  in  a  cooler  vein. 

When  he  had  finished,  Dent  took  the  envelope  out  of 
his  hand. 

"Postmarked  in  Chelsea,  the  fourteenth.  Isn't  that 
the  day  after  you  were  at  the  flat — that  is,  after  Miss 
Carter  had,  according  to  you,  left  London  to  join  Eve- 
lyn?" 

Meredith  could  not  trust  himself  to  answer.    He  felt 


286  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

certain  that  lie  had  been  tricked,  and  tricked  deliber- 
ately, but  his  hands  were  tied.  He  would  have  liked 
to  wring  Evelyn's  neck:  in  an  age  of  polite  warfare 
this  desire  had  to  be  repressed,  but  the  effort  of  re- 
pressing it  took  every  inch  of  strength  in  the  will  of 
the  cold-tempered,  careless  man.  He  threw  down  the 
letter  and  turned  away. 

"Bit  of  a  discrepancy,  isn't  there?"  said  Dent.  "A 
mistake  we'll  call  it  if  you  like,  but  it  takes  a  lot  of 
goodwill  to  make  a  mistake  like  that.  No  need  to  rub 
it  in — but  I'm  afraid  you've  lost  the  toss,  Meredith." 

"Have  I?" 

Dent,  who  had  never  forgiven  Meredith  for  what  he 
regarded  as  treachery  to  a  friend,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  linked  Evelyn's  hand  through  his  arm. 
"I'm  afraid  Kitty'll  think  so.  That's  what  comes  of 
being  too  clever.  She  never  would  have  suspected  you, 
Eve,  old  chap,  if  Meredith  hadn't  been  so  cocksure, 
which  was  natural  enough  no  doubt,  but  doesn't 
always  pay  in  the  long  run.  Now  look  here,  Mere- 
dith :  you  owe  Evelyn  an  apology,  and  unless  you  want 
me  to  drop  you,  and  Kitty  too,  I'm  going  to  see  you 
make  it.  Own  up:  you  were  wrong,  weren't  you? 
You're  satisfied  now  that  Evelyn  hasn't  got  a  woman 
hidden  in  the  house?" 

"No,"  said  Meredith.     "Evelyn,  whose  are  these?" 

In  the  yellow  lamplight  he  held  up  Sophy's  silk 
stockings,  left  on  the  floor  in  her  hurried  flight. 

Dent  dropped  Evelyn's  arm.     "Eve!" 

"You  have  my  word,"  said  Evelyn. 

"They  belong  to  your  wife,  perhaps,"  suggested 
Meredith  politely. 

"Eve!     Eve,   old   chap!"     Dent   was    white   with 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  287 

terror.  "It  isn't  possible !  Your  word  of  honour  .  .  . 
you  that  have  always  been  like  my  brother.  .  .  .  Eve, 
you  couldn't  do  it :  you  never  would  have  tricked  me 
like  that?" 

"Perhaps  they're  his  own,"  said  Meredith.  "Shall 
we  try  them  on  him?"  He  laughed  and  tossed  the 
stockings  on  the  piano.  "My  dear  Dent,  you  can 
continue  if  you  like  to  take  the  immaculate  Evelyn's 
word — if  his  aspect  inspires  you  with  confidence.  I've 
too  much  at  stake.  I'm  going  over  the  house." 

"By  heaven  you  shan't,"  said  Evelyn.  He  set  his 
back  to  the  door. 

"Hold  him,  we  don't  want  a  fuss,"  said  Meredith, 
seizing  Evelyn  by  one  arm.  Dent,  ashy  white  but 
stern,  interlocked  the  other.  Both  were  by  far  the 
stronger  men,  and  between  them  Evelyn  could  not  put 
up  any  fight  at  all.  Within  thirty  seconds  he  was 
jerked  out  of  the  way  and  thrown  down.  Meredith 
ran  up  the  stairs,  and  Dent,  after  one  glance  to  make 
sure  that  Evelyn  was  not  hurt,  followed  him.  Mere- 
dith opened  the  door  of  the  room  Dent  had  slept  in. 
It  was  empty  and  in  its  original  bare  disorder ;  except 
that  the  bed  had  been  made  up,  there  was  not  a  vestige 
left  of  Sophy's  tenancy.  "There's  no  one,"  said  Dent, 
"there  can't  be :  Eve  would  never  .  .  .  I've  known  him 
all  my  life— !" 

"Try  the  opposite  earth,"  said  Meredith  with  his 
habitual  coolness. 

He  lifted  Evelyn's  latch,  but  the  door  refused  to 
open.  Meredith  silently  pointed  out  to  Dent  that  no 
light  shone  through  the  wards  of  the  keyhole.  The 
'key  had  been  turned  from  the  inside. 

"Let  us  in,  Sophy,"  said  Meredith  in  his  strong 


288  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

voice.  "No  one's  going  to  hurt  you.  It  is  Edmund 
Meredith  and  George  Dent." 

There  was  no  answer.  Meredith  rapped  with  his 
knuckles.  "Come !  open  the  door  like  a  sensible  girl. 
We  know  you're  there,  and  if  you  don't  unlock  it  we 
shall  only  have  to  break  it  down." 

But  still  no  reply  came  and  no  noise.  "The  room's 
empty,"  said  Dent. 

"Lend  me  your  stick,"  said  Meredith.  He  took  it 
out  of  Dent's  hand — a  solid  English  mahogany  walk- 
ing stick  topped  with  a  silver  knob — clubbed  it  and 
struck  two  or  three  smashing  blows  with  it  which  had 
all  the  weight  of  his  temper  behind  them.  The  wood- 
work held  fast  but  the  rickety  lock  bent  and  tore  out  of 
the  jamb,  and  the  door  shot  open  writh  a  violence  that 
laid  it  flat  back  on  its  hinges.  Then  the  two  men 
found  themselves  looking  into  Evelyn's  bedroom.  It 
was  almost  bare  of  furniture  and  rigidly  neat.  An 
oaken  locker  served  as  washstand  and  dressing  table, 
a  bracket  and  curtain  formed  his  wardrobe;  there  was 
no  mirror  but  a  shaving  glass  nailed  to  the  wall.  In 
front  of  the  window  was  drawn  up  an  iron  camp  bed- 
stead, hard  and  narrow  enough  for  a  monk.  But 
across  a  couple  of  chairs  were  strewn  the  contents 
of  Sophy's  suitcase,  toys  in  gold  or  ivory  and  filmy 
brilliancies  of  a  more  intimate  nature  which  with  the 
best  intentions  she  had  collected  and  carried  in  at 
lightning  speed.  She  had  foreseen  that  Dent  and 
Meredith  would  have  to  share  her  room  that  night, 
and  that  Evelyn  would  give  up  his  own  to  her.  She 
had  done  what  she  could  to  stave  off  discovery — but 
success  had  not  attended  her  efforts.  And  cringing, 
blushing,  almost  crying,  she  cowered  between  Evelyn's 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  289 

three-foot  bedstead  and  open  window,  the  rain  and 
gale  thrashing  in  over  her  white  dress,  an  image  of 
distress  and  shame. 

"Sophy!"  said  Meredith  letting  fall  the  walking 
stick  in  his  amazement.  "It  is  you!" 

He  knew  then  that  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  had  not, 
to  the  very  end,  believed  that  they  would  find  any 
woman  there. 

"Yes,  me!"  Sophy  cried,  raising  her  head  in  a 
sudden  furious  defiance.  "What  about  it?  But  of 
course  you'd  think  I  couldn't  stay  here  and  not  be 
Charles's  mistress.  If  it  was  you  I  should  be  yours, 
shouldn't  I?" 

"Loyal  to  the  last,  these  wretched  creatures,"  said 
Dent.  He  leant  against  the  door,  sick  with  horror. 
"Loyal  to  that — that  .  .  .  And  Kitty  too,  that  never 
would  own  up  why  she  left  him  .  .  .  ." 

"  'Tisn't  true,  but  what's  the  good  of  saying  so?" 
Sophy  murmured  bitterly.  "Not  that  it  matters  what 
you  think  of  me — I'm  only  a  lump  of  studio  dirt, 
that's  pretty  plain  now;  if  I'd  had  the  pluck  of  a 
mouse  I'd  have  jumped  out  of  the  window." 

"Come  on,"  said  Dent,  "let's  get  out  of  this." 

He  picked  up  the  stick  that  Meredith  had  let  fall 
and  followed  him  out  of  the  room,  shutting  Sophy 
into  it.  Then  going  down  with  Meredith  into  the 
parlour  Dent  shut  that  door  too  behind  him.  Evelyn 
stood  by  the  table  waiting  for  them.  All  the  pre- 
paration that  he  had  made  for  facing  them  was  to 
put  away  the  manuscript  of  Clair  de  Lune.  He  was 
quite  helpless:  not  only  were  they  two  to  one,  but 
either  of  them  singly  would  have  been  more  than  his 
match.  Dent  came  up  to  him  and  stood  looking  down 


290  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

at  him  without  a  trace  of  anger  or  any  other  feeling 
in  his  light  stern  eyes  except  bewilderment. 

"We've  seen  that  girl  upstairs,"  he  said  at  length, 
quietly  and  without  touching  Evelyn.  "She  was  in 
your  bedroom.  You've  deceived  me,  and,  what's 
worse,  you've  deceived  Kitty.  Now  you're  not  going 
to  get  off  with  the  shame  of  being  found  out.  You 
wouldn't  feel  it.  You're  going  to  get  what  you  will 
feel.  I'll  make  you  feel  before  I've  done  with  you." 

"I  never  deceived  you,  George." 

"Stop  it.  Don't  you  dare  call  me  that,"  said  Dent. 
He  forced  Evelyn  down  across  the  table.  "Hold  his 
wrists,  Meredith,  if  he  twists  about.  It'll  save  time: 
and  I  don't  want  to  mark  him." 

Sophy  in  the  room  above,  in  which  every  breath 
was  audible,  crouched  on  the  floor  with  her  arms  over 
her  head.  But  there  was  little  to  hear :  no  struggle, 
no  movement  of  furniture :  not  one  sound  from  Dent, 
or  from  Evelyn,  except  an  occasional  gasping  sigh: 
nor  from  Meredith,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire- 
place, grimly  approving  Dent's  performance  of  a 
fraternal  duty,  though  he  would  rather  not  have  done 
it  himself.  But  he  felt  constrained  to  confess  that 
he  could  not  have  done  it  better.  He  had  to  interfere 
in  the  end,  touching  Dent's  arm. 

"That'll  do,  Dent.  You  don't  want  to  kill  the  poor 
devil." 

"There's  no  danger.  I  haven't  given  him  so  much 
as  all  that." 

"Your  wrist  is  like  a  sledgehammer."  He  raised 
Evelyn's  head.  "He's  all  right  but  he's  had  enough. 
Put  him  in  a  chair,  unlock  the  door,  and  let's  go." 

"What,  and  leave  that  girl  here?" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  291 

"Well,  you  don't  propose  to  take  her  with  you,  do 
you  ?"  Meredith  said  with  a  laugh  which  was  not  quite 
steady.  To  him  the  scene,  though  necessary,  had  been 
distasteful,  though  he  hated  Evelyn.  Not  so  to  Dent, 
who  had  loved  Evelyn  all  his  life  like  a  younger 
brother:  in  him  there  was  neither  pity  nor  disgust — 
he  was  simply  satisfied  as  at  a  cleared  score,  and  that 
a  heavy  one. 

Meredith  lifted  Evelyn  not  ungently  and  laid  him 
down  in  Sophy's  chair.  "What  would  his  matinee 
audiences  say  to  us  if  they  could  see  him  now?" 
Again  his  laugh  was  unsteady,  and  Dent  glanced  at 
him  sharply. 

"You  had  better  have  a  tot  of  brandy,  there's  a 
bottle  on  the  shelf." 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  Meredith. 

He  drank  from  the  flask  and  set  it  down  on  the 
table;  caught  up  his  cap,  unlocked  the  parlour  door, 
and  called  up  the  stairs:  "Sophy." 

"What?"  said  Sophy,  standing  in  Evelyn's  doorway. 

"Come  down :  Evelyn  wants  you." 

"You  haven't  killed  him  then,  between  you?" 

"There  is  good  blood  in  you  somewhere,"  said  Mere- 
dith oddly,  "or  you'd  have  interfered." 

"Mind  you  tell  Mrs.  Evelyn  how  brave  you've  been, 
that's  all.  She'll  love  to  hear  how  you  held  him  down 
for  Mr.  Dent  to  beat  him." 

"Come  along  now,"  said  Meredith,  ignoring  Sophy. 
"We  shall  have  a  devil  of  a  wet  walk  back  to  Ria. 
Darkish,  too."  He  hesitated  on  the  step.  "It  does 
seem  rather  rough  luck  to  leave  her  alone  with  him. 
You  have  half  killed  him,  you  know." 

But  Dent,  in  the  satisfaction  of  duty  done,  was 


292  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

indifferent  and  even  cheerful.  Always  trim,  he  had 
only  lingered  to  shake  himself  down  into  his  dis- 
ordered clothes,  settling  his  cuffs  and  giving  a  little 
pull  to  his  waistcoat,  which  during  his  late  exertions 
had  worked  up  into  a  wrinkle  under  his  arms.  "They 
can  look  after  each  other,"  he  said,  going  out  into  the 
night  without  a  second  glance  at  Evelyn :  "she  must  be 
used  to  rows  by  this  time,  a  hussy  like  that." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SOPHY." 
"Yes." 
"Where  are  you?    Why  don't  you  come  here?" 

Sophy  descended  the  stairs  slowly,  a  step  at  a  time, 
her  hand  lingering  on  the  rail.  "I  thought  you 
mightn't  want  me,"  she  said,  lingering  again  on  the 
parlour  threshold,  her  head  hanging  down. 

"I  want  some  brandy,"  said  Evelyn.  "Like  Mere- 
dith. I  shouldn't  have  thought  he  was  so  'squeamish. 
Give  me  some,  will  you?  It's  on  the  table.  Rinse  it: 
he  drank  out  of  the  bottle." 

Sophy  carried  the  flask  into  the  kitchen  and  rinsed 
the  lip  of  it  with  a  wet  cloth ;  found  a  cup  and  filled 
it  half  full  of  Monsieur  Blanc's  excellent  cognac. 
Again  she  halted  in  the  doorway.  "Am  I  to  come 
in?" 

"Lord !  don't  make  such  a  fuss,"  said  Evelyn  irrit- 
ably. Sophy  came  up  to  him  then  and  held  out  the 
cup.  But  he  turned  his  head  away,  felt  for  his 
handkerchief,  and  spat  out  a  mouthful  of  blood. 
"Pah!  get  me  some  water  first,  there's  a  dear  girl. 
What  are  you  looking  so  white  for?  It's  nothing: 
my  mouth's  cut." 

Sophy  fetched  him  a  bowl  from  the  kitchen,  a  jug 
of  water,  and  a  glass.  His  cheek  had  been  cut,  not 
by  Dent  but  in  the  rough  and  tumble  with  Meredith 
before  they  went  upstairs,  and  was  bleeding  on  the 
inside.  Leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  Evelyn  waited 

293 


294  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

for  the  flow  to  cease.  "This  -water's  warm.  Run 
down  to  the  brook,  will  you,  and  get  me  some  that's 
properly  cold?" 

That  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  storm  was  the 
only  sign  he  gave  of  mental  confusion.  It  was  still 
pouring  in  torrents,  and  the  rain  streaming  off  that 
steep  hillside  had  turned  the  mule-track  into  a  water- 
course. Sophy  in  her  draggled  dress  and  still  bare- 
foot splashed  through  it  stolidly.  It  did  not  signify 
to  her:  so  far  as  it  came  home  to  her  at  all,  she  felt  a 
vague  pleasure  in  getting  wet  for  Evelyn  and  under 
Evelyn's  orders.  Ice  cold,  she  brought  him  water  that 
was  half  foam :  the  brook,  which  normally  ran  along 
a  conduit  to  feed  an  aqueduct,  had  burst  bounds  and 
was  rushing  in  a  cataract  all  across  the  road. 
"They'll  be  pretty  wet  before  they  reach  Ria,"  Sophy 
remarked. 

"Who?" 

"Meredith  and  Mr.  Dent." 

"I  hope  they  will,  confound  them!"  Evelyn  mut- 
tered. 

He  washed  out  his  mouth  with  Sophy's  water,  which 
distilled  in  mist  on  the  warm  glass,  and  drank  off  neat 
a  teacupful  of  brandy.  "That's  better.  Ouf !  I'll  go 
and  lie  down  for  a  bit.  My  brother-in-law  has  a 
heavy  hand.  Just  give  me  your  arm,  will  you?  Here, 
chuck  over  that  jacket  of  mine."  Sophy  gave  him 
the  incongruous  white  and  green  blazer  which  was  all 
he  ever  wore  at  Evol,  and  Evelyn  with  a  wry  twist 
of  the  lip  pulled  it  over  his  shoulders  and  stood  up, 
leaning  heavily  on  her  arm.  She  thought  he  would 
have  fainted  before  she  got  him  to  the  door,  but  he 
reached  it  safely  in  the  end,  and  exchanged  her  sup- 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  295 

port  for  the  balustrade,  by  which  he  succeeded  in 
dragging  himself  up  as  far  as  the  turn  of  the  stair: 
the  rest  of  the  journey — a  short  one,  fortunately — 
was  performed  on  his  hands  and  knees.  But  when  he 
got  to  his  feet  on  the  landing  he  reeled  like  a  drunken 
man.  "Sophy!" 

"What?" 

"Come  up.  Help  me!"  said  Evelyn  impatiently. 
Throwing  his  arm  round  her  neck  and  leaning  most  of 
his  weight  on  her,  he  stumbled  over  to  his  bed  and 
dropped  across  it  helpless.  Sophy  unlaced  his  espa- 
drilles  and  pulled  them  off.  No  protest  following,  she 
raised  his  legs  and  shifted  him,  gingerly,  ID  to  an  easier 
attitude :  then  darting  into  her  own  room  pulled  open 
drawer  after  drawer  of  the  big  press  and  rummaged 
through  them  till  she  found  Madame  Blanc's  store  of 
linen  sheets  and  pillowcases.  Coarse  they  were,  but 
pure  linen,  and  choosing  the  finest  she  tore  it  swiftly 
into  strips.  The  miscellaneous  experiences  of  her 
Paris  life  served  her  well  now :  Dent  was  right — this 
was  not  the  first  fight  she  had  seen,  nor  the  first  time 
it  had  fallen  to  her  lot  to  bind  up  the  vanquished. 
She  was  timid  with  Evelyn  not  because  the  spectacle 
of  blood  and  blows  frightened  her,  but  from  an  intui- 
tive sympathetic  shyness,  the  same  instinct  as  had 
kept  her  upstairs  when  she  would  have  given  her  soul 
to  go  down  and  fling  herself  between  the  quarreling 
men.  She  might  have  protected  Evelyn :  but  how  he 
would  have  hated  to  owe  his  safety  to  a  girl !  No,  let 
the  men  settle  their  own  scores !  Even  now  when  she 
was  alone  with  Evelyn,  though  it  made  her  so  happy 
to  minister  to  him,  she  was  terrified  of  displeasing 
him.  She  came  shyly  back  with  a  coil  of  rough  dress- 


296  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

ings  in  her  hand:  "Say,  d'you  mind— will  you  Met 

"L-let  you?"  Evelyn  mocked  her.  "My  dear  girl, 
this  delicacy  is  out  of  place !  Do  make  the  best  job  of 
me  you  can— I'm  sorry  to  bother  you,  but  I  don't  want 
to  be  laid  up,  and  I  feel  as  though  that  confounded  ass 
George  Dent  had  taken  some  of  my  skin  off."  He 
raised  himself  on  one  arm  while  Sophy  fetched  a 
sponge  and  basin  and  deftly  set  to  work.  "How  dark 
it  is!"  said  Evelyn  presently.  "Light  my  candle, 
won't  you?  .  .  .  Hallo!" 

"What?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  dress?" 

"It's  wet,"  Sophy  explained  indifferently.  "I  got 
wet." 

"Going  to  the  brook  for  my  water !  Of  all  the — O 
Sophy,  I  clean  forgot  the  storm !" 

"No,  no!  it  wasn't  that,  I  was  wet  before  that."  , 

"How  on  earth—?" 

Sophy  nodded  towards  the  window,  which  was  still 
open :  driving  in  unchecked,  the  rain  had  made  a  wide 
puddle  on  the  floor.  "I  knew  they'd  have  to  sleep  in 
my  room,"  she  explained,  when  she  had  taken  her 
safety-pin  out  of  her  mouth,  "so  I  scurried  in  here 
and  carried  all  my  things  across.  Then  when  Mere- 
dith found  my  stockings  (Lord!  I  was  a  scatterbrain 
to  leave  them  behind),  I  knew  he'd  search  the  house 
and  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  jump  out  of  the 
window.  But  there  wasn't  time  then  to  get  back  into 
my  own  room  without  being  seen  and  jump  out  of  my 
own  window  where  the  hill  runs  up,  and  here  in  front 
it's  a  longish  drop^and  the  stone  steps  don't  give  you 
much  of  a  chance.  I  did  put  one  leg  over  the  sill  but 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  297 

I  couldn't  get  the  other  to  go  after  it.  I  told  you  I 
was  a  coward." 

"And  a  good  job  too!  What,  jump  out  of  that 
window  fifteen  feet  down  on  the  stones?  I  never 
heard  such  madness.  You  might  have  broken  your 
back!" 

"Nought  never  comes  to  harm,"  said  Sophy  with  her 
fugitive,  shadowy  smile. 

He  fingered  the  dripping  sleeve.  "You're  wet 
through.  Go  into  your  room  and — have  you  a  dress 
to  change  to?" 

"No.  I  left  almost  all  my  clothes  in  my  trunk  at 
Ria.  I'm  all  right,  Charles  darling!  don't  you  worry 
your  old  head  about  me." 

"Right,  are  you?  you'll  be  as  right  as  rain  if  you 
catch  rheumatic  fever.  Go  and — oh  bother !" 

Trying  to  rise,  he  had  overtaxed  his  strength. 
Sophy  twisted  her  fingers  together  and  turned  away, 
not  daring  to  watch  him  in  his  weakness,  though  the 
tears  were  in  her  eyes :  cool  as  he  was,  and  unpretenti- 
ously cool,  without  strain  or  bravado,  he  could  not 
have  gone  through  that  scene  in  the  parlour  without 
some  bitter  sensations.  Behind  her  back,  Evelyn 
furtively  touched  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief : 
it  was  wet  and  his  lips  were  pale,  but  his  voice 
remained  natural  and  firm. 

"Go  to  that  locker  and  pull  out  the  second  shelf 
from  the  top.  You'll  find  a  lot  of  my  things  in  it,  a 
shirt,  some  clean  flannels,  a  tie  that  I  wear  to  Ria. 
Take  an  outfit  and  put  them  on.  My  trousers  will  be 
a  bit  too  long  for  you  but  you  can  tuck  'em  up." 

"But  I  can't  wear  your  trousers !" 

"Oh  Lord,  I  suppose  you've  never  had  on  a  pair  of 


298  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

bags  before !"  said  Evelyn  impatiently.  "Take  'em  and 
do  as  you're  bid.  You  can  stick  my  dressing  gown  on 
top  of  them  if  you're  so  shy.  And  put  your  stockings 
on,  do :  it  isn't  the  middle  of  the  day  now  and  there's 
often  a  freshness  after  one  of  these  storms." 

Bather  unwilling,  but  docile,  Sophy  carried  off  an 
armful  of  dry  flannels.  She  had  begun  to  feel  the 
drag  and  chill  of  her  wet  clothes  and  was  not  sorry 
to  get  out  of  them,  although,  strangely  enough,  she 
was  shy  of  borrowing  Evelyn's.  Strangely,  because 
she  could  remember  many  a  studio  frolic  when  she  had 
been  less  particular!  But  now  she  had  to  console 
herself  with  the  reflection  that  it  really  wasn't  her 
fault,  she  was  only  obeying  orders — Evelyn,  as  a  rule 
the  most  deprecating  of  men,  had  for  once  got  fairly 
into  the  imperative  mood,  and  she  had  not  the  heart 
to  oppose  him.  She  had  just  buttoned  herself  into  a 
white  flannel  jacket,  and  was  turning  up  the  hems  that 
fell  down  over  her  ankles,  when  Evelyn  called  to  her 
again,  in  a  startled  voice.  Sophy  ran  to  him,  muffling 
herself  in  his  dressing  gown  on  the  way.  Evelyn 
during  her  absence  had  apparently  shaken  off  a  good 
deal  of  his  faintness ;  his  face  was  not  so  ghastly  pale, 
and  he  was  sitting  up,  propped  on  one  arm. 

"There's  another  party  knocking  at  the  door!  It 
never  rains  but  it  pours,  does  it?  Just  stick  your  head 
out  of  the  window  and  see  what  he  looks  like." 

Sophy  knelt  down  by  the  low  sill  and  craned  her 
neck  over  it.  "The  rain's  lifted  but  it's  so  dark  I 
can't  see— Oh !" 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Meredith." 

"Nonsense !" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  299 

"It  is,  then:  d'you  think  I  don't  know  Meredith?" 

"Is  Dent  with  him?" 

"No,  but  he  may  be  waiting  in  the  road.  I  can't 
see  much  beyond  the  light  from  the  parlour  win- 
dow." 

"Sophy !     Sophy !" 

Guarded  but  urgent,  Meredith's  whispered  cry  came 
up  to  them  from  below.  Sophy  watched  him  go  and 
peer  through  the  window  into  the  empty  sitting  room, 
then  come  back  and  try  the  door  again.  It  was 
unlocked,  but  he  stood  hesitating  as  if  afraid  to  enter. 
"Ask  him  what's  up,"  said  Evelyn. 

Sophy  leant  over  the  sill.  "Meredith,  what  d'you 
want?" 

"A  lantern  or  flash,  if  you  have  such  a  thing,  and  a 
coil  of  rope." 

"What  in  the  world  for?" 

"There's  been  an  accident." 

"Oh !     Is  Mr.  Dent  hurt?" 

"No.  Come  down  and  see  if  you  can  find  them,  will 
you?  I  suppose  you  know  where  they're  kept." 

Sophy  made  a  fleeting  grimace.  "As  I  said  before, 
I've  only  been  in  the  house  twenty-four  hours ;  still  I'll 
try." 

She  turned,  to  find  Evelyn  on  his  feet  and  re-lac- 
ing his  shoes.  "Charles!  you  mustn't — you  can't 
walk  about.  Let  me — " 

"You  can't.  You  wouldn't  know  what  to  do,"  said 
Evelyn.  "Shut  up,  Sophy,  and  don't  make  a  fuss. 
I've  broken  no  bones  and  moving  about  won't  hurt  me. 
In  plain  English  I've  had  a  devil  of  a  thrashing,  but  if 
you  think  I'm  going  to  lie  up  because  of  it  you're  jolly 
well  mistaken."  He  hurried  downstairs,  his  step 


300  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

growing  firmer  as  lie  pulled  his  strength  together. 
Meredith  was  still  waiting  on  the  doorstep ;  apparently 
he  felt  delicate  about  re-entering  Evelyn's  house. 
When  the  door  was  opened  by  Evelyn  himself,  Sophy's 
extempore  bandages  ruling  a  transverse  pattern  under 
his  thin  shirt,  Meredith  gave  an  irrepressible  and 
violent  start. 

"Here,  come  in,  do.     What's  happened?" 

Meredith  had  to  conquer  an  immense  disinclination 
to  set  foot  a  second  time  in  Evelyn's  parlour.  "I 
want  a  length  of  rope  and  a  lantern.  Dent  has  had 
a  fall ;  he's  not  hurt  and  there's  no  danger,  but  I  can't 
get  him  up  because  I  can't  see  what  I'm  doing.  There 
has  been  a  bit  of  a  landslide  across  the  Ria  road,  a 
fall  of  rock  that  has  carried  down  a  bit  of  the  coping ; 
trying  to  scramble  over  it  in  the  dark,  he  went  too  near 
the  edge  and  it  gave  way  under  him." 

"But  where  is  he?" 

"On  a  ledge:  not  far  below,  but  everything's  run- 
ning with  water  and  as  slippery  as  glass.  I  tried  to 
reach  him  but  he  warned  me  off;  said  I  should  bring 
half  the  hillside  down  on  top  of  him." 

"Sapristi!"  muttered  Evelyn. 

He  vanished  into  the  kitchen,  where  Meredith  heard 
him  giving  rapid  directions — still  in  the  imperative 
mood. 

"Sophy,  do  you  know  how  to  light  a  fire  on  that  open 
hearth  in  the  parlour?  .  .  .  Good  girl!  There's  a 
shed  in  the  yard  where  you'll  find  a  lot  of  dry  wood 
and  fircones,  and  here  are  my  matches.  Use  paraffin 
there's  any  surface  wet  on  the  faggots.  In  that 
cupboard  you'll  find  a  tin  of  soup:  hack  it  open— 
there's  a  what-you-may-call-it  on  the  shelf— and 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  301 

hot  it  up.  Put  a  drop  of  milk  to  it.  Then  get  your 
blankets  down  and  warm  them." 

"But  you  can't — you'll  hurt  yourself — !" 

Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  Sophy's  lamentation,  Evelyn 
came  back  with  a  coil  of  thin  strong  rope  in  his  hand. 
It  was  what  Monsieur  Blanc  had  used  for  cording 
bales  on  his  hay-wain.  "This  long  enough?  it's  all  I 
have  so  we  must  make  it  do."  He  thrust  an  electric 
torch  into  the  breast  of  his  shirt.  "Can  you  stow 
away  the  brandy?  We  may  want  it,  and  it's  not  so 
likely  to  break  in  the  pocket  of  your  thick  tweeds." 
He  was  hurrying  out  when  Meredith  caught  his  arm. 

"Give  me  the  cord  and  the  torch.  You're  not  fit  to 
go." 

Evelyn  flushed  scarlet  and  freed  himself  with  a 
fierce  jerk.  "Fit  or  not,  I  must  go.  You  don't  know 
these  hills." 

"I  recognise  your  pluck,  Evelyn,  but  you  would  be 
more  trouble  than  you  were  worth.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  you  can  hardly  stand." 

"Compliments  afterwards.  Oh !  come  on,  do.  How 
long  do  you  suppose  that  loose  shingly  stuff  will  hold? 
It  may  fetch  loose  at  any  moment:  and  it's  fifteen 
hundred  feet  to  the  torrent." 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  Meredith  aghast. 

Unacquainted  with  the  country,  and  preoccupied 
with  the  odious  necessity  of  going  back  to  ISvol,  he 
had  not  realised  that  Dent  was  in  danger.  He  had 
taken  for  granted  that  so  long  as  Dent  kept  quiet  he 
was  safe.  But  what  safety  could  there  be  on  those 
crumbling  slopes,  if  one  came  to  think  of  it,  for  any- 
thing larger  than  a  goat?  Frightened  into  acquies- 
cence, he  followed  Evelyn  out  into  the  night. 


302  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

It  was  by  now  dark:  on  an  ordinary  evening  it 
would  still  have  been  twilight,  but  the  clouds  that  had 
come  up  with  the  storm  were  such  as  make  candles 
bum  bright  at  noonday.  The  rain  had  stopped,  but 
everything  was  streaming  wet,  and  the  valley  bottom 
was  a  black  gulf  through  which  the  Ria  torrent  roared 
like  surf  on  a  pebble  strand.  When  they  reached  Eve- 
lyn's tributary  brook  he  produced  his  torch  and  they 
had  to  go  carefully.  It  had  brought  down  a  quantity 
of  big  stones  which  were  strewn  all  over  the  roadway, 
and  where  they  dammed  the  channel  it  swirled  like  a 
cataract,  almost  knee-deep.  Evelyn  in  his  weakness 
could  hardly  stand  up  under  it.  Meredith  silently 
offered  him  a  hand. 

"Thanks,"  said  Evelyn,  impassively  accepting  it. 

"Take  my  arm,  won't  you?" 

"I  will  if  you  don't  mind." 

In  after  years  that  walk  lingered  in  Meredith's  mem- 
ory like  a  bad  dream — one  of  those  dreams  of  wide 
flooding  when  the  habitable  world  seems  to  be  resolv- 
ing itself,  amid  the  unutterable  confusion  and  anxiety 
of  the  dreamer,  into  a  single  element.  The  splash  of 
puddles  underfoot,  the  universal  murmurous  ripple 
of  thousands  of  runnels  coming  down  over  invisible 
heights,  the  wan  gleam  of  an  occasional  lightning  flash 
which  spilt  itself  among  distant  clouds  like  a  pool 
of  white  water  among  black  rocks,  the  precipices  and 
tossing  peaks  which  for  a  moment  opened  out  under  it 
clear  as  day  and  rough  as  an  unquiet  sea,  the  night- 
mare conflict  between  having  to  hurry  to  rescue  Dent 
and  not  being  able  to  hurry  because  they  could  not 
without  stumbling  put  one  foot  before  another,  above 
all  the  discomfort  of  feeling  that  light  but  painful 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  303 

weight  on  his  arm — confused  yet  intense  impressions, 
they  were  of  those  that  pierce  below  the  normal  regis- 
tration strata  and  leave  their  print  on  the  mind  for 
ever.  Chief  among  them  was  distress  on  Evelyn's  ac- 
count :  but  he  dared  not  give  it  utterance. 

"Hallo !  is  this  the  place?" 

Evelyn  held  up  his  torch  and  flashed  it  across  the 
chaos  ahead  of  him.  They  had  gone  about  a  kilo- 
metre on  the  mule-track  to  Ria,  and  had  reached 
a  spot  where  it  rounded  a  great  bluff  in  a  hairpin 
curve,  a  headland  of  rock  hanging  over  it,  a  stark 
torn  cliff  dropping  down  from  it  into  abysmal  gloom. 
This  turn,  always  dangerous  for  carts  and  horses, 
had  been  protected  by  thirty  or  forty  yards  of  stone 
coping.  But  wind  or  rain  or  lightning  had  split  the 
rock  overhead,  most  of  the  coping  had  gone  down  head- 
long into  the  ravine,  and  what  remained  of  the  road 
was  buried  under  thousands  of  tons  of  raw  red  soil, 
boulders,  uprooted  firtrees,  shreds  of  turf,  and  black- 
ened shards  of  limestone,  which  when  the  small  round 
beam  from  Evelyn's  torch  danced  over  them  looked 
like  raw  flesh  and  bones  of  earth,  or  debris  left  over 
from  its  creation. 

"Dent!    Dent!  are  you  all  right?" 

"Right  as  rain,"  Dent's  voice  floating  up  from  be- 
low sounded  rather  thin  and  exhausted  through  the 
wailing  gusts  of  wind.  "But  be  careful,  I  can't  stretch 
about.  Can  you  see  me?" 

"No.     Where  are  you?" 

"On  my  right,  that's  Ria  way,  there's  a  goodsized 
firtree  sticking  out  with  its  heels  in  the  air.  On 
my  left  nothing  but  a  gigantic  rubbish  heap.  Right 


304  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

oYerhead  a  big  boulder  that  looks  beastly  loose.  I 
can't  see  anything  under  me  at  all." 

"Has  your  firtree  a  split  trunk  like  an  L?  .  .  .  All 
right.  Hold  on  half  a  minute." 

"Well,  hurry  up,  there's  a  good  chap,  I  feel  awfully 
near  slipping." 

No  time  had  been  lost,  for,  while  Meredith  was  try- 
ing to  locate  Dent,  Evelyn  had  been  making  the  rope 
fast  to  a  bit  of  unbroken  coping,  and  tying  knots  in 
it  and  a  loop  at  the  end  for  Dent  to  slip  over  his  head. 
"Ask  him  if  he  can  manage  the  rope  by  himself,"  Eve- 
lyn prompted  Meredith.  "It's  full  long  enough  to 
chuck  over." 

"Yes,  if  you  can  hit  me  off,"  Dent  called  back  in  his 
goodhumoured  cool  tone.  "But  I  can't  go  looking 
for  it.  This  ledge  is  about  fifteen  inches  wide  and 
feels  shaky,  also  I've  strained  my  right  shoulder  pretty 
badly— ugh !" 

"What's  wrong?"  Meredith  asked,  swiftly  flinging 
out  the  rope  in  what  he  judged  to  be  the  right  direc- 
tion—  "Here  you  are." 

The  rattle  of  a  couple  of  pebbles,  which  ran  on  and 
on  down  the  cliff  and  never  stopped  till  they  rolled 
out  of  earshot,  made  Dent's  danger  appallingly  plain. 
"Bit  sensitive,  this  old  ledge,"  the  voice  was  weaker 
now,  "doesn't  seem  to  like  me  to  sit  up  on  it.  ... 
Send  down  the  rope  for  goodness'  sake !" 

"I  have  sent  it  down." 

"I  haven't  got  it." 

"I  must  go  down,"  said  Meredith,  swiftly  hauling 
in  the  rope. 

"No,  I,"  said  Evelyn :  "you're  too  heavy." 

"Evelyn,  you  can't!" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  305 

"I  must.  Your  athletics  are  a  thing  of  the  past: 
you  weigh  twice  what  I  do  and  you're  out  of  training. 
I'm  used  to  these  hills  and  I  can  climb  about  them  like 
a  fly." 

"That  won't  mend  matters  if  you  faint,"  said  Mere- 
dith bluntly. 

"I  never  faint." 

He  pulled  the  loop  over  his  head.  Meredith  would 
have  given  the  world  to  insist,  but  dared  not,  for 
Dent's  sake:  he  was  too  heavy  and  his  muscles  had 
lost  their  spring.  All  he  could  do  was  to  pay  out 
the  rope,  while  Evelyn,  his  torch  in  one  hand,  threw 
his  leg  over  the  parapet  and  scrambled  warily  down 
from  boulder  to  boulder,  a  round  disk  of  light  danc- 
ing ahead  of  him  and  lighting  up  every  tuft  of  wet 
grass  and  every  pebble  on  his  road.  Torch  or  no, 
Meredith  could  have  tracked  him  by  the  noise  he 
made,  for  at  each  step  earth  and  stones  went  rolling, 
rolling  out  of  earshot. 

"Where  are  you?"  Dent's  voice  was  very  feeble 
now.  "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Bringing  down  the  rope." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Evelyn." 

"Evelyn?  .  .  .  Don't  come  down.  Keep  back — for 
God's  sake  keep  back!  this  shelf  is  rocking  under 
me.  Throw  me  the  rope." 

"Can't,  there's  a  branch  in  the  way." 

"Then  I'm  done.  Don't  come  any  nearer,  I'm  going. 
O  God! —  Say  goodbye  to  Kitty  for  me.  Eve,  you 
fool,  keep  back,  it's  cracking — " 

Evelyn  sprang  for  it.  He  crashed  through  a  net- 
work of  twigs  and  fell  on  his  hands  and  knees  on  the 


306  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

lip  of  rock  where  Dent  was  lying.  It  broke  under 
him  with  a  roar  like  thunder,  but  as  it  split  and 
crumbled  he  got  hold  of  Dent  by  a  leg  and  an  arm 
and  held  to  him  by  his  grip  on  Dent's  clothes. 
For  one  appalling  moment  they  seemed  to  drop  with 
a  dropping  universe;  and  taen  the  loop  pulled  taut 
under  Evelyn's  armpits,  the  hillside  below  came  rush- 
ing up  to  meet  them,  Dent  dug  in  his  fingers  and 
toes,  and  slowly,  panting,  dripping  with  sweat,  groan- 
ing aloud  with  the  anguish  of  his  wrenched  shoulder, 
Dent  got  his  weight  off  Evelyn  and  Evelyn  shifted 
the  loop  over  Dent's  head. 

"That  was  a  good  bit  of  cord,"  Dent  remarked 
soberly. 

Dirty,  wet,  and  bleeding,  he  sat  in  the  road,  his  head 
on  Meredith's  knee;  the  loosely  cut  tweed  coat  was 
already  strained  tight  over  his  swollen  shoulder. 
Evelyn,  a  step  or  two  away,  was  coolly  unknotting 
the  rope  from  the  parapet  and  coiling  it  over  his 
arm.  Meredith  alone  was  not  cool.  It  had  irked 
and  mortified  him  to  have  to  stand  by  inactive,  he 
had  been  frightened  out  of  his  life  when  the  rock 
cracked,  and  he  was  afflicted  by  scruples  which  his 
companions  did  not  seem  to  share.  "Confound  it  all," 
he  burst  out,  "what  are  we  to  do?  How  am  I  to  get 
you  to  Ria  in  this  state?" 

"To  Ria?" 

"There'll  be  no  cart  or  diligence — no  conveyance 
of  any  sort  to  be  had  on  a  night  like  this:  and  even 
to-morrow  there'll  be  this  infernal  road  blocked — 
and  you  can't  walk  ten  miles— what  is  to  be 
done?" 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  307 

Evelyn  opened  his  eyes.  "You  were  not  thinking 
of  pushing  on  to  Eia  to-night?" 

"Where  else  can  we  go?" 

"Why,  back  to  Evol,  of  course.  You're  woolgather- 
ing, Meredith." 

"To  Evol?"  Meredith  repeated  stupidly. 

"George  can  get  as  far  as  that  if  we  each  give 
him  an  arm :  can't  you,  George?" 

"But  we  can't  go  to  Evol !" 

"Oh,  rubbish!"  said  Dent,  "there's  no  getting  on  to 
Ria  to-night  nor  yet  to-morrow  for  me.  I  feel  done 
to  the  world  and  I  want  this  coat  cut  off  me.  Eve'll 
give  us  a  room." 

"But  of  course !"  said  Evelyn  laughing.  "What  are 
you  dreaming  of?  Didn't  you  hear  me  tell  Sophy  to 
get  soup  and  hot  blankets  ready?  We  had  better  get 
a  move  on,  too,  George  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"But—!" 

"But  what?  If  it's  the  commissariat  problem  that 
bothers  you,  pray  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  always 
keep  ten  days'  iron  rations  in  the  larder  since  one 
depressing  occasion  last  winter  when  I  was  snowed 
up  and  lived  for  a  week  on  rice  and  jam."  He  stooped 
to  help  Dent  to  his  feet.  "Come  along,  old  fellow, 
the  sooner  you're  between  the  sheets  the  better." 

"But — I"  said  Meredith  for  the  third  time  and  as 
unavailingly  as  before.  He  felt  bewildered,  as  if  set 
down  to  play  in  a  game  of  which  he  had  never  learnt 
the  rules.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Evelyn  to  be 
magnanimous  (confound  him!)  after  saving  Dent's 
life,  but  what  was  Dent  doing?  Had  he  so  soon  for- 
given Evelyn?  Forgiveness  apart,  wasn't  the  situa- 
tion a  trifle  delicate,  a  trifle  awkward?  How  could 


308  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

Dent  go  to  Evol  and  accept  the  hospitality  of  Evelyn 
— or  of  Sophy? 

But  Dent  with  his  delusive  simplicity  seemed  to 
find  nothing  indecent  in  what  was  inevitable.  It  had 
to  be,  therefore  it  ought  to  be,  and  he  was  not  going 
to  boggle  at  it.  He  got  up  slowly  and  stiffly,  grunt- 
ing like  one  of  his  own  cows,  and  dividing  his  weight 
between  Meredith  and  Evelyn. 

"That  was  something  like  a  storm,  my  word !  I'm 
glad  I  don't  get  storms  like  that  on  top  of  my  harvest. 
It'd  lodge  the  crops  as  if  a  steam  roller  had  gone  over 
them.  No,  it's  no  mortal  use  your  fussing,  Meredith, 
you  couldn't  get  to  Ria  to-night  not  if  it  was  to  attend 
your  own  wedding !" 


CHAPTER  XX 

NOW  began  an  interlude  which  seemed  to  Mere- 
dith as  strange  and  as  completely  out  of  touch 
with  their  life  before  and  after  it  as  the  time 
spent  by  shipwrecked  sailors  on  a  desert  island ;  and 
the  stranger  because  his  companions  were  content 
apparently  to  take  all  for  granted  and  settle  down 
together  as  if  they  meant  to  stay  at  fevol  till  they  died. 
To  move  Dent  was  impossible ;  he  turned  out  to  have 
broken  two  ribs  as  well  as  spraining  his  shoulder, 
and  was  light-headed  for  a  few  nights,  with  a  tempera- 
ture of  a  hundred  and  three.  It  would  hardly  have 
been  safe  to  get  him  to  Ria  even  in  an  ambulance, 
still  less  in  a  farm  cart,  and  in  point  of  fact  no  vehicle 
of  any  kind  was  available  till  a  breakdown  gang  had 
been  sent  up  to  clear  the  landslide  and  restore  com- 
munication by  road.  While  that  was  doing  they  were 
almost  cut  off  from  their  neighbours,  for  the  only  way 
down  from  Evol  was  by  footpath  over  the  hills.  Eve- 
lyn departed  at  dawn,  sent  a  telegram  to  Kitty,  and 
brought  back  a  medical  man  on  a  high-shouldered, 
mild-eyed  mule,  who  praised  Sophy's  dressing  of  the 
damaged  side,  and  ordered  Dent  to  keep  quiet  and 
live  on  strong  broth  and  tisane  (a  febrifuge  of  the 
country  brewed  from  lime-leaves,  and  perhaps  the 
mildest  drink  that  ever  was  quaffed  from  a  teacup) ; 
after  Monsieur  Bailbe"  left  again,  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  wait.  Dent  and  Meredith  shared  the  big 
room  at  the  back  of  the  inn,  Sophy  was  put  into  Eve- 

309 


310  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

lyn's  bedroom,  and  Evelyn  slept  on  the  kitchen 
floor.  By  tacit  consent,  the  collision  between  Dent 
and  Evelyn  was  ignored  as  though  it  had  never  hap- 
pened. 

Evelyn  being  host  and  householder,  the  control  of 
the  situation  was  for  him  to  take,  and  to  the  irritation 
and  bewilderment  of  Meredith  he  took  it !  He  it  was 
who  mapped  out  their  duties  for  them,  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  parlour  table  and  gravely  making  notes  on 
a  chart  which  was  afterwards  nailed  to  the  wall : 
Sophy  to  do  most  of  the  cooking,  and  act  as  nurse  by 
day  and  occasionally  by  night,  sleeping  with  her 
door  open  and  going  in  and  out  to  minister  to  Dent 
when  Meredith  called  her;  Meredith  to  sally  forth 
with  a  gun  or  a  fishing  net,  and  bring  in  rabbits  and 
pigeons  and  grives  and  an  occasional  izard,  or  a  trout 
ignominiously  hauled  ashore  in  defiance  of  Waltonian 
etiquette — Meredith  who  had  never  in  all  his  life 
before  attacked  a  trout  with  anything  but  a  fly! — 
and  Evelyn  himself  to  do  the  ordinary  work  of  the 
house,  sweeping  and  washing  and  fetching  wood  and 
water  with  the  energetic  neatness  of  a  well-drilled 
batman.  Meredith  used  to  hear  him  whistling  about 
his  duties  as  if  it  were  his  chief  pleasure  in  life  to 
scrub  the  parlour  floor.  Dust  thickened  on  the  lid 
of  the  shut  piano.  The  unfinished  MS.  of  CMr  de 
Lune  was  stacked  out  of  harm's  way  in  an  empty 
biscuit  tin.  And  Evelyn  was  not  often  seen  to  cast 
regretful  glances  on  it;  the  tune  to  which  he  blacked 
Meredith's  boots  (for  the  amenities  of  life  were  not 
neglected)  was 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  311 

A  blue  and  white  young  man 

(Believe  it  if  you  can!) 
A  "What's  the  next  article?" 

( Don't  care  a  particle ! ) 
Howell  and  James'  young  man ! 

Which  was  all  very  well  for  Evelyn  but  left  Meredith 
fuming. 

What  chiefly  mystified  him  were  the  relations  be- 
tween Evelyn  and  Dent.  He  tried  once  when  they 
were  alone  to  get  an  explanation  out  of  Dent,  but 
the  invalid  was  uncommunicative  and  even  peevish. 
"You  must  hate  being  tied  here  by  the  leg,"  Mere- 
dith said,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  Dent's  bed  to  light 
him  a  cigarette.  "It  is  excessively  trying  for  us  both 
to  be  Evelyn's  guests,  considering  the  terms  on  which 
we  parted  from  him."  Dent  took  his  cigarette  with 
a  grunt  of  ungracious  thanks.  "Excessively"  was  a 
word  that  he  had  never  used  in  his  life.  "I  feel  the 
strain  as  acutely  as  you  do,  but  for  the  moment  I 
can  see  no  alternative.  But  you  may  rely  on  me  to 
get  you  out  of  Evol  at  the  first  possible  moment." 

"No  hurry,"  said  Dent  stolidly. 

"I  appreciate  the  courage  with  which  you  face  an 
awkward  situation." 

"  'Don't  feel  it  awkward." 

"I  should  have  thought — " 

"Well,  you'd  have  thought  wrong.  You  generally 
do." 

Conversation  was  becoming  difficult,  and  Meredith 
was  not  sorry  to  be  called  down  by  Evelyn  and  des- 
patched into  the  ravine  under  orders  "to  shoot  some 


312  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

supper."  Left  alone,  Dent  lay  back  on  his  pillow  with 
a  frown  for  Meredith  and  a  ruminant  smile  for  Eve- 
lyn. He  was  glad  to  have  "sorted"  Meredith.  He 
had  instantly  discerned  and  resented  Meredith's  at- 
tempt to  draw  him  out.  He  was  not  going  to  discuss 
Evelyn  with  Meredith.  An  inquisitive  fellow,  Mere- 
dith !  Dent  was  too  little  self-centred  to  realise  that 
after  a  volte-face  so  unaccountable  as  his  own  Mere- 
dith or  any  man  might  well  feel  curious. 

To  Dent  it  all  seemed  so  simple  and  so  natural: 
directly  his  first  anger  had  begun  to  cool,  the  old  af- 
fection for  his  feudal  overlord  had  revived  in  him 
strangely  mingled  with  the  affection  of  a  good  elder 
brother  in  the  Sixth  for  his  junior  and  fag.  After 
all,  what  had  Evelyn  done?  Gone  off  with  another 
woman  and  then  lied  about  it!  Dent  hated  the  lie, 
but  vaguely  supposed  it  belonged  to  the  Evelyn  tra- 
dition; an  Evelyn  would  dishonour  himself  to  pro- 
tect a  woman,  as  coolly  as  he  would  cheat  a  trades- 
man to  pay  a  gambling  debt.  Remembering  the  pun- 
ishment that  Evelyn  had  undergone  and  the  truly 
Christian  revenge  that  he  had  taken  for  it,  Dent  was 
inclined  to  write  "Discharged  in  full"  at  the  foot  of 
that  bill — the  more  readily  because  there  would  keep 
coming  back  a  creeping  doubt,  had  it  been  circum- 
stances that  lied,  and  not  Evelyn  after  all?  It  was 
difficult  in  cold  blood  to  associate  Evelyn  with  dis- 
honour. 

Of  course,  if  Evelyn  were  innocent,  Meredith  would 
have  said  that  Dent  ought  to  feel  ten  times  more  un- 
comfortable at  6vol.  But  Meredith  never  saw  any- 
thing straight!  Dent  with  his  shrewd  smile  reflected 
that  this  was  not  the  first  time  Evelyn  had  felt  the 


GLAIR  DE  LUNB  313 

weight  of  his  friend's  right  arm.  There  was  that  June 
afternoon  long  ago  when  Evelyn  had  been  discovered 
in  the  Manor  Farm  dairy  decorated  with  whiskers  of 
Manor  Farm  cream.  .  .  .  What  a  pity  to  manufac- 
ture emotions!  It  was  not  as  if  Meredith  had  had 
a  hand  in  it.  Luckily  he  had  stood  by  inactive ;  and  so 
long  as  it  lay  between  Dent  and  Evelyn  what  did  it 
signify?  Not  much — and  especially  in  view  of  Eve- 
lyn's revenge! 

"Meredith,"  Leslie  Wright  had  once  said,  "is  one  of 
those  fellows  that  always  prefer  penny  coloured  to 
tuppence  plain."  Incapable  of  simplicity,  he  could 
not  follow  the  workings  of  Dent's  mind,  not  at  all — 
they  were  a  dark  riddle  to  him;  but  the  result  was 
clear  though  not  the  process.  He  stood  alone  at  6vol. 
Evelyn  was  in  command,  Sophy  was  his  ally,  and  Dent 
in  some  incomprehensible  way  had  subsided  into  a 
benevolent  neutral.  It  was  the  old  story,  and  a  dim 
distress,  the  wistfulness  of  a  dog  that  has  been  hurt 
and  does  not  know  why,  mingled  in  Meredith's  anger 
as  he  asked  himself  why  he  always  stood  alone.  Why 
had  he  no  friends  who  would  stand  up  for  him  right 
or  wrong  as  these  two  would  stand  up  for  Evelyn,  the 
ungrateful,  the  undeserving?  Then  remembering 
Kitty's  constancy — "I  shall  always  love  Eve  best" — 
he  set  his  teeth  and  swore  that  here  at  all  events 
Evelyn  should  not  supplant  him.  Possibly — it  was 
an  unwelcome  idea  which  only  very  stern  pressure 
could  have  forced  on  him — it  was  his  own  fault  if 
he  lacked  friends.  His  temper  was  fastidious  and 
reserved.  But  not  for  Kitty — no,  not  for  Kitty:  if 
it  is  love  that  begets  love,  he  would  surely  be  able 
to  oust  that  unresponsive  image  of  Evelyn  from  Kitty's 


314  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

warm  and  tender  heart?  For  he  loved  her,  and  not 
selfishly;  it  was  her  happiness  that  he  was  seeking 
as  much  as  his  own.  She  should  not  waste  her  sweet- 
ness and  beauty  on  Evelyn's  want  of  manhood.  Surely 
he  could  detach  her  from  Evelyn?  With  a  rush  of 
the  old  unscrupulous  audacity,  Meredith  reflected  that 
the  simplest  if  not  the  most  delicate  method  was  to 
begin  by  detaching  Sophy  from  Evelyn.  Well,  that 
ought  not  to  be  difficult,  seeing  that  in  days  gone 
by 

It  was  sunset,  and  the  sixth  night  after  the  storm. 
Having  been  with  Dent  most  of  the  day — he  was  an 
insubordinate  invalid  and  had  to  be  watched  to  keep 
him  from  moving  about — Sophy  had  come  forth  for 
a  breath  of  air,  and  to  stretch  her  limbs,  cramped  from 
sitting  on  a  wooden  chair.  She  had  thrown  herself 
on  the  turf  a  little  way  from  the  house  and  was 
watching  the  sun's  descent  into  the  western  head  of 
the  ravine.  It  was  one  of  those  mild  and  cloudy 
French  evenings  that  recall  England,  the  England  of 
springtime ;  under  a  rippled  sky,  grey  nearly  all  over, 
but  a  grey  that  was  perpetually  on  the  verge  of  parting 
over  the  blueness  of  air  or  the  gilding  of  low  sunshine, 
the  valleys  took  on  a  fresher  greenness  and  the  hills 
were  dimmed  by  a  misty  bloom.  Far  off  in  some 
lonely  upland  a  cuckoo  was  calling  and  flying  from 
crag  to  crag,  and  his  voice,  always  a  little  melancholy 
in  an  English  ear — 

The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I — 

was  in  tune  with  these  half-tones  and  low  lights,  these 
grey  stones  that  reflected  the  colouring  of  the  motion- 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  315 

less  clouds,  and  these  brooks  tenderly  watering  their 
solitary  and  sweet-scented  dales,  where  forget-me-not 
and  gentian  and  frail  narcissus  blew  side  by  side  in 
fine,  thymy  grass. 

Only  in  the  east,  in  the  direction  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, between  quilting  cloud  and  invisible  sea- 
board, there  shone  as  there  had  shone  all  day  a  wide 
gleam — a  girdle  of  sunlit  air,  primrose  at  dawn,  azure 
at  noon,  and  now  green  and  faint,  to  remind  the 
mountain-dwellers  of  amber  sails  on  a  wine-dark  sea. 
Sophy's  sun-loving  eyes  dwelt  on  it,  turning  away  from 
the  grey  peaks  and  shady  glens.  She  was  still  wear- 
ing Evelyn's  flannels,  and  they  hung  loose  on  her, 
as  the  clothes  of  even  a  slight  man  will  on  a  woman, 
quaintly  travestying  the  straight  shape  of  a  boy ;  his 
coat  came  down  halfway  to  her  knee,  and  under  it 
she  wore  a  sash  made  out  of  a  couple  of  red  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs and  loosely  knotted  round  her  waist.  But 
she  had  coiled  up  her  hair  and  put  on  her  shoes  and 
stockings.  She  sat  on  a  flat  bit  of  sward,  her  shoul- 
ders propped  against  the  cosiest *  of  natural  cushions, 
a  good-sized  broom  bush,  which,  at  once  dense  and 
compact  and  soft,  springy  and  yielding,  did  as  well 
as  the  most  luxurious  armchair  ever  turned  out  by 
Waring  and  Gillow.  Her  hands  were  folded  on  her 
lap,  her  legs  stretched  out  at  full  length  and  crossed 
at  the  ankle. 

Steps  on  the  Ria  road:  steps  she  had  known  very 
well  in  days  gone  by.  Sophy  frowned,  drawing  down 
her  straight,  rather  thick  eyebrows  till  they  had  the 

i  In  my  opinion.  But  I  know  little  about  heather,  of  which  many 
speak  highly.  It  should  be  noted  however  that  to  get  the  beat  out 
of  a  broom  bush  one  must  sprawl  plump  in  the  middle  of  it.  Sophy 
was  a  townbird. 


316  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

effect  of  darkening  her  eyes.  Yes,  there  was  Meredith, 
carrying  Evelyn's  gun  in  one  hand  and  a  bird  of  un- 
known plumage  in  the  other.  He  waved  to  Sophy  and 
vanished  into  the  house.  In  a  minute  or  so  he  came 
out  again,  bare-headed  and  relieved  of  his  burdens, 
and  by  a  gesture  asked  Sophy's  leave  to  join  her  on 
the  turf.  Sophy  gave  it  with  a  negligent  nod,  and 
Meredith  came  striding  up  to  her  and  cast  himself 
prone  at  her  side,  leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand. 
Sophy  continued  to  stare  at  him  with  her  little  hard 
frown  as  if  he  puzzled  her.  What  really  did  puzzle 
her  was  her  own  feeling  for  him. 

She  had  been  so  desperately  in  love  with  him  once ! 
without  regret  or  shame  she  remembered  those  hours 
in  Tennant's  studio  when  she  had  felt  there  was  noth- 
ing, nothing  he  could  ask  that  she  would  not  give  .  .  . 
with  the  sweet  and  reckless  prodigality  of  a  woman 
who  will  burn  her  own  house  down  to  light  a  man's 
candle,  for  Sophy  had  no  sense  of  proportion  and  she 
was  very,  very  young.  Innocent  too — more  innocent  in 
thought  than  many  women  of  spotless  life:  she  had 
given  her  maidenhood  to  Meredith  to  please  him  not 
herself,  and  though  she  loved  him  with  all  her  heart, 
and  though  to  charm  him  she  learnt  every  wile,  yet  the 
moments  that  were  sweetest  both  in  their  passing  and 
in  her  memory  were  innocent.  And  what  was  left  of 
it  all  now?  A  handful  of  cold  ashes?  Not  quite  cold. 
Gone,  infinitely  remote  were  those  days  when  all  her 
Me  was  either  meeting  him  or  hurrying  to  meet  him : 
if  possible  remoter  yet  the  days  of  her  anguish  when 
ie  discovered  how  little  a  model's  love  meant  to  him : 
all  that  passion  and  tenderness  and  grief  and  tortur- 
ing humiliation  might  have  happened  to  another 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  317 

woman,  so  deeply  bad  other  events  and  feelings  silted 
up  over  her  not  far  distant  girlhood :  and  yet  for  old 
sakes'  sake  Meredith  was  not  and  could  never  be  to 
her  quite  the  same  as  other  men. 

Sophy  kept  a  diary  (in  French,  and  under  lock  and 
key).  There  were  names  in  it,  names  of  men,  that 
she  had  entirely  forgotten.  She  could  not  recollect 
what  they  were  like  or  when  or  how  she  had  met  or 
parted  from  them.  There  was  a  cloud  over  certain 
years  of  her  girlhood  in  Paris,  the  years  when  Mere- 
dith had  left  her  to  struggle  against  the  pressure  of 
life  without  the  defense  of  self-respect.  But  over 
the  year  of  her  love-affair  with  Meredith  there  was  no 
cloud ;  each  tiny  incident  stood  out  clear,  jokes,  way- 
side meals,  a  compliment  that  he  had  paid  her,  a  walk 
they  had  taken  together  in  the  Forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau  in  autumn,  the  shoes  she  had  worn  ( green  shoes : 
Meredith  had  liked  them),  the  colouring  of  the  elms 
(it  was  October,  and  on  one  particular  tree  he  had 
admired  one  particular  gold  bough) ,  the  purple  velvet 
petals  and  gilt  stamens  of  dahlias  in  an  inn  garden, 
Meredith's  insistence  on  cutting  off  the  tops  of  her 
eggs  for  her  instead  of  letting  her  pat  them  all  over 
with  a  spoon  as  she  liked  to  do.  ...  No,  he  could  never 
again  be  to  her  no  more  than  other  men.  Now  and 
again  his  eyes  appraised  her  as  if  she  were  for  him 
not  quite  like  other  women. 

"Where's  Evelyn?" 

"Gone  to  the  me"tairie  to  fetch  some  more  milk." 

"Is  Dent  asleep?" 

"Yes.  His  temperature's  down  to  ninety-nine 
point  two  to-night,  which  means  he'll  be  pretty  well 
normal  to-morrow  morning.  He's  much  better.  Did 


318  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

you  come  up  past  the  landslide?"  Meredith  nodded. 

"They're  doing  famously:  people  on  foot  or  riding 
can  get  by  now,  and  in  another  twenty-four  hours 
there'll  be  a  track  available  for  mule-carts.  Then  we 
can  send  for  a  conveyance  from  Ria  and  ship  him  down 
to  the  railway.  Candidly,  I  shall  not  be  sorry  to  clear 
out  of  fevoL" 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  alone?''  Sophy  was  malicious 
enough  to  ask.  "Charles  and  I  could  see  after  Mr. 
Dent  without  you."  Meredith's  smile  was  rather  dif- 
ficult and  strained. 

"Sophy,  you  are  a  woman,  and  a  clever  one.  You 
do  not  need  me  to  explain  to  you,  in  words  of  one 
syllable,  that  I  can't  steal  a  march  on  Evelyn  by 
going  back  to  Perpignan  while  he  is  detained  here 
by  Dent.  That  is  one  of  the  things  that  aren't  done. 
Perhaps  I  am  over-scrupulous,  for  it  seems  he  wouldn't 
go  if  he  could,  still  one  prefers  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 
But  as  soon  as  the  Ria  road  is  clear  that  moral  veto 
will  be  withdrawn,  and  then  .  .  .  Sophy,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.  You  understand  Evelyn  pretty  well,  don't 
you?" 

"Ought  to,  oughtn't  I?  if—!" 

Meredith  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Your  relations 
with  him,  my  dear,  are  a  riddle  I  do  not  pretend  to 
have  solved.  But  this  much  is  plain,  you  are  here  with 
him  and  he  did  try  to  conceal  your  presence  from  us. 
You  know  everything  that  passed  that  night  we  ar- 
rived?" 

"Yes.  You  can  hear  pretty  clearly  through  to  the 
room  overhead." 

"It  was  an  odious  scene,"  said  Meredith.  His  strong 
fingers  had  pulled  up  a  tuft  of  grass  and  were  tearing 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  319 

it  to  bits  as  if  the  memory  worked  on  his  nerves. 
"Odious.  I'd  give  a  thousand  pounds  for  it  never  to 
have  happened." 

"Would  you  really?"  Sophy  murmured.  "A  thou- 
sand pounds?  That's  a  good  round  sum;  and  you 
never  did  much  like  parting,  did  you?" 

"You  have  a  natural  gift  of  irony,  Sophy,  but  don't 
exercise  it  on  me.  Perhaps  I  don't  deserve  anything 
better  from  you,  but  you  should  be  generous,  for 
I'm  at  your  mercy.  You  must  know  that,  since  you 
know  how  matters  stand  between  Evelyn  and  me." 

"Don't  you  wish  you  were  French,  or  that  it  was 
a  hundred  years  ago?" 

"Why?" 

"So  as  you  and  Charles  could  have  a  shot  at  each 
other  and  Mrs.  Evelyn  could  belong  to  the  winner." 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  neither  wish  to  shoot  Evelyn 
nor  to  let  him  shoot  me,"  said  Meredith  drily.  "You 
are  a  very  woman !  Why?  Because  all  women  love 
to  set  a  couple  of  men  at  each  other's  throats.  You 
would  like  to  tarre  me  on  against  Evelyn,  wouldn't 
you?  but  you  won't  do  it.  Evelyn  is  my  friend.  Cir- 
cumstances have  made  us  hostile  but  I'm  still  too  fond 
of  him  to  wish  him  any  harm." 

"Is  that  so?  ...  Don't  beat  about  the  bush,  Ed- 
mund. I  know  you  well  enough  to  see  when  you're 
only  marking  time." 

"You  know  me  very  well,  don't  you?" 

"Better  than  you'd  like,"  Sophy  muttered,  not 
flinching  under  Meredith's  libertine  eyes.  "D'you 
flatter  yourself  you  can  get  one  in  on  me  that  way? 
Not  you.  For  all  that's  come  and  gone  between  us  I 
don't  care  that" — she  snapped  her  fingers  not  too  far 


320  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

from  Meredith's  nose— "except  that  it's  left  me  a  sort 
of  silly,  sneaking  fondness  for  you,  I  suppose  because 
I  gave  you  such  a  lot  when  I  was  a  girl.  You  didn't 
treat  me  well.  You'd  better  not  rake  up  that  time  in 
Paris.  There's  more  in  it  for  you  to  be  ashamed  of 
than  for  me." 

"Oh !  well,  don't  let's  drag  all  that  up  again."  He 
was  discomfited  and  showed  it,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
"All  that  Paris  life  is  dead  and  done  with.  But  after 
all  it  was  sweet,  wasn't  it?  Do  you  regret  it?  I 
don't.  I  could  never  regret  anything  so  delicious  as 
the  love  and  the  freshness  you  gave  me.  Why  should 
either  of  us  be  ashamed?  Haven't  you  the  courage 
to  say  boldly,  as  men  do,  'This  and  this  were  indiscre- 
tions, but  they  were  part  of  my  life  and  I  wouldn't 
lose  them  out  of  it,  not  even  now  when  I've  put  follies 
behind  me'?" 

"Pretty:  but  I  still  don't  see  exactly  what  you're 
driving  at." 

"Alliance  offensive  and  defensive."  He  raised  his 
bold  blue  eyes.  "Don't  you  beat  about  the  bush  either, 
my  lady.  You  were  in  love  with  me  once,  but  you 
aren't  now.  You  want  Evelyn.  That  suits  my  book, 
because  I  want  his  wife." 

"How  d'you  mean — to  many  her?" 

"Good  God  yes !" 

Sophy  laughed— a  little  ironic  laugh  without  bitter- 
ness. "Sorry,  I  forgot.  She's  got  a  good  social  posi- 
tion, so  naturally  you  would  want  to  marry  her.  But 
what's  the  use  of  coming  to  me  about  it?  I  don't 
carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket,  do  I?  Go  along  baby! 
you've  wandered  up  the  wrong  street." 

"You  can  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know." 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  321 

"About  me  and  Evelyn?  Go  on,  Edmund — don't 
be  coy." 

Meredith  sighed.  He  was  not  proud  of  the  part 
he  was  playing.  But  for  a  short  cut  to  Kitty  he  would 
have  gone  through  any  mire,  and  fixing  his  cynical 
eyes  on  Sophy  he  marshalled  his  arguments  before 
her  with  the  suave  brutality  which  he  had  inherited 
from  the  K.  C.  his  father.  "I  can't  win  Mrs.  Evelyn 
unless  I  can  prove  that  Evelyn  has  been  your  lover. 
He  denies  it,  so  now  I  come  to  you." 

"What,  you  want  me  to  own  up?    It's  an  ill  bird — !" 

"Come  now,  Sophy :  he  isn't  the  first." 

"No,  you  were  that." 

"Perhaps.  But  you  see,  my  dear,  he  isn't  the  sec- 
ond either." 

"So  that  I  shall  be  none  the  worse  for  owning  up?" 

"And  will  you?  ...  If  you  do  it,  Mrs.  Evelyn  will 
divorce  her  husband  and  marry  me;  and  if  you  played 
your  cards  well  you  might  easily  get  Evelyn  to  marry 
you." 

"Social  rehabilitation  all  round,"  said  Sophy  after  a 
moment.  Her  lip  curled.  "No  wonder  you  hung  in 
the  wind  a  bit  before  you  brought  it  out.  You  are 
a  caution,  Edmund!  It  does  puzzle  me  what  I  ever 
saw  in  you  to  be  so  fond  of."  Her  voice  rose.  "You're 
a  gentleman,  aren't  you?  Is  this  what  you  call  a  gen- 
tlemanly bargain?  Me  to  give  Charles  away  so  as  I 
can  get  him  and  you  can  get  his  wife?  I  wonder  what 
Mrs.  Evelyn  'd  say  to  it  if  I  gave  you  away  to  her 
instead!" 

Meredith  was  not  alarmed ;  he  knew  his  own  power 
too  well.  "For  old  sakes'  sake  you  won't  do  that.  I 
trust  you,  Sophy." 


322  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

"I  trusted  you." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  "Quiet !  what's  the  good 
of  going  back  over  that?  I  did  treat  you  badly  and 
I've  never  denied  it,  you  trusted  me  and  I  failed  you, 
but  I  trust  you  now  and  you  won't  fail  me:  that's  the 
way  of  the  world  between  men  and  women,  the 
ha'pence  for  us  and  the  kicks  for  you !  And  after  all 
what  is  there  to  give  away?  There's  nothing  base 
in  what  I  propose  except  the  bare  look  of  it.  Evelyn's 
a  dog  in  the  manger.  He  won't  let  his  wife  go,  but 
he  doesn't  want  her  himself.  Heaven  knows  why  he 
ever  married  her.  They  haven't  a  taste  in  common. 
He  would  be  happier  if  he  were  a  free  man ;  far,  far 
happier  if  he  were  married  to  you. — You  do  look  jolly 
in  those  clothes,  Sophy,"  he  sat  up  and  slipped  his 
arm  round  her  waist :  "for  a  wild  unconventional  devil 
like  Eve  you  would  make  an  ideal  wife!  He  doesn't 
want  to  go  into  society,  no  more  do  you.  He's  always 
running  away  from  his  obligations,  and  you  would 
run  with  him.  He's  an  artist  to  his  fingertips  and 
beauty  means  more  to  him  than  it  does  to  most  men, 
and  you're  beautiful  enough,  heaven  knows !  too  beau- 
tiful for  most  men's  peace  of  mind.  That's  why  I 
can't  believe  his  relations  with  you  are  so  Platonic 
as  he  pretends.  He's  a  man  like  the  rest  of  us,  and 
no  man  could  leave  such  a  fruit  on  the  wall  when  it 
was  his  for  the  picking:  why,  I  can  hardly  keep  my 
fingers  off  it  myself  when  I  remember  how  sweet  it 
was  in  the  old  days,  though  I  know  it's  not  for  me ! 
But  that  afternoon  in  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau, 
do  you  recollect?  and  the  inn  at  Barbizon— " 

"Don't,"  said  Sophy  brokenly :  "  'tisn't  fair.  ..." 

Meredith  let  her  go  and  relapsed  on  the  turf.     "It 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  323 

isn't.  You're  right,  I  ain  a  blackguard."  Lined  and 
drawn  by  passion,  he  leant  his  head  down  on  his  folded 
arms.  "But  I  want  her — I  want  her." 

"Poor  old  boy!"  Sophy  murmured,  caressing  his 
hair.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

So,  in  the  forest  of  Pontainebleau,  under  the  Oc- 
tober oakleaves,  he  had  laid  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
said  "I  want  you — I  want  you,"  and  her  answer  had 
been  given  in  the  inn  at  Barbizon.  He  had  been  sin- 
cere then,  at  twenty-five:  unmoved  by  her  distress, 
heedless  of  her  future,  a  selfish  egoist,  yet  honest  in 
his  need  of  her.  He  was  sincere  now,  though  there 
might  be  a  vein  of  calculation,  Sophy  fancied,  in  his 
candour:  his  suffering  was  real,  though  perhaps  he 
hoped  to  touch  her  by  it.  And  she  was  touched,  for 
the  passion  that  had  devastated  her  girlhood  and 
spoilt  her  life  had  left  a  faint  maternal  warmth  be- 
hind it,  a  disposition  to  give  her  baby  the  moon  if  he 
cried  for  it.  But,  alas !  she  could  not  reach  it.  Sophy 
was  incontinently  truthful.  For  Meredith,  she  could 
have  pulled  off  without  a  sigh  her  hardwon  mantle  of 
respectability,  but  not  for  him  nor  for  Evelyn  nor  for 
her  own  happiness  could  she  say  the  thing  that  was 
not. 

"I  can't  help  you,  Edmund.  I  can't  say  he  was  my 
lover  when  he  wasn't,  can  I?" 

"Not  your  lover?" 

"Oh  no!  never.  I  loved  him,  but  he  never,  never 
wanted  me." 

"Make  him  so." 

"Make  love  to  him,  d'you  mean?  He  wouldn't 
.  .  .  He's  not  like  you." 

"Damn  him!     I  know  he  isn't."     Meredith  mut- 


324  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

tered,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  half  mad- 
dened by  the  shock  of  disappointment.  "He's  only 
half  a  man.  But  you  could  get  round  him:  never 
tell  me!  There  are  ways." 

"But  I'm  not  that  sort,"  Sophy  pleaded,  her  voice 
full  of  pain.  "I  don't  make  up  to  men  that  don't 
want  me — and  another  woman's  husband  at  that! 
I  like  Mrs.  Evelyn.  I  used  to  see  her  in  Chelsea.  She's 
got  an  awfully  nice  face,  and  she  was  very  fond  of 
Charles." 

"She's  had  enough  of  him  now." 

"That's  not  true."  Sophy  paused,  her  voice  chang- 
ing. "If  it  were— " 

"I  tell  you  she's  sick  to  death  of  him!"  Meredith 
said  savagely.  "Any  woman  would  be  that  had  a 
grain  of  self-respect  in  her.  If  it's  for  her  you're 
sorry,  your  scruples  are  misplaced.  I  shall  make  her 
happy,  which  is  more  than  Evelyn  ever  did  or  will." 

"D'you  mean  she  likes  you  best?" 

"My  good  girl,  that's  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  cares 
to  proclaim  from  the  housetops!  ...  Oh  well,  if 
you  must  have  it,  I  believe  I  have  her  photograph 
somewhere  on  me."  He  began  to  rummage  through 
his  pockets.  "Where  the  deuce — ?" 

"Breast  pocket,"  suggested  Sophy  with  ten  thousand 
devils  in  her  smile. 

"Breast  pocket  it  is."  Reddening  to  his  forehead, 
yet  brazen  under  his  confusion,  he  dragged  it  out  and 
flung  it  on  the  turf:  the  same  photograph  that  Dent 
had  taken  away  from  Evelyn,  and  which  Meredith 
had  found  lying  about  in  Dent's  study  and  had  appro- 
priated without  leave.  Reckless  now,  Meredith  was 
not  going  to  explain  how  he  had  come  by  it.  The  end 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  325 

justifies  the  means;  Sophy  was  irrationally  and  un- 
fairly sceptical,  and  here  was  one  of  those  lies  which 
are  truer  than  the  truth — as  Meredith  saw  it.  Sophy 
examined  the  portrait  long  and  thoughtfully.  A 
trifle  dimmed  by  hard  wear,  Kitty's  speaking  eyes  still 
looked  up  with  the  old  sweet  and  gay  bravery  from 
under  the  brim  of  her  shady  hat.  Sophy  shook  her 
head  over  it  with  a  faint  sigh. 

"I've  seen  this  photo  before,  it's  the  same  as  the  one 
she  gave  to  Charles  when  they  were  engaged.  That 
was  the  night  it  all  began.  ...  So  now  she  gives  it  to 
you,  does  she?  She  does  look  nice  all  the  same.  Are 
you  so  sure  you'll  make  her  happy?" 

"Turn  it  over." 

"Hallo!"  Obeying  him,  she  had  come  on  the  in- 
scription :  "With  Kitty's  love."  "My  goodness !  does 
she  chuck  her  love  about  like  that?  Well,  perhaps 
you  will  make  her  happy  if  she's  that  sort." 

"Give  it  me  back,"  said  Meredith.  He  did  not  in- 
tend to  correct  Sophy's  false  impression,  and  yet 
against  his  will  he  felt  sick  and  ashamed.  He  tried 
to  take  the  photograph  from  her,  but  she  held  it  fast. 
Her  perplexed  and  half-displeased  eyes  had  travelled 
suddenly  beyond  him  and  were  fixed  in  a  fascinated 
stare.  Meredith,  looking  round,  gave  a  violent  start. 
Who  was  this  who  was  coming  towards  them  like  a 
ghost  in  the  twilight,  white-clad,  and  barefoot  on  the 
soundless  turf?  It  was  Evelyn,  carrying  the  water- 
bucket  on  his  way  to  the  spring. 

Flight  and  concealment  were  alike  impossible,  for 
he  was  already  close.  He  stood  still,  smiling  down 
at  Sophy  and  stretching  out  one  hand  for  Kitty's  por- 
trait, "Mine,  I  think." 


326  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

"  Tisn't,  it's  hers,  she  gave  it  him,"  said  Sophy,  re- 
linquishing it  not  to  Evelyn  but  to  Meredith. 

"Did  she?"  said  Evelyn.  He  took  it  from  Meredith 
and  slipped  it  into  the  breast  of  his  shirt. 

"Don't  let  him  take  it,  Edmund !"  Sophy  cried  out, 
more  jealous  for  the  man  who  seemed  to  need  protec- 
tion than  for  the  man  she  loved :  "why  d'you  let  him?" 

Meredith  smiled  weakly  and  said  nothing.  In  every 
struggle,  between  individuals  as  between  nations,  there 
comes  a  moment  when  the  balance  shifts  finally  this 
way  or  that.  In  the  struggle  between  himself  and 
Evelyn,  Meredith  had  always  innocently  assumed  that 
he  would  win  by  virtue  of  that  moral  domination  pre- 
viously mentioned  of  character  and  will.  But  he  was 
not  winning  now.  Under  Evelyn's  gentle  and  amused 
glance  his  pretensions  shrivelled  off  him  and  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  left  naked.  His  last  garment  had 
fluttered  away  when  Sophy  unwittingly  betrayed  his 
lie  to  Evelyn  and  when  Evelyn  disdained  to  expose  it. 

"That  bird  you've  brought  in,  Meredith,"  said 
Evelyn,  shifting  his  bucket  from  one  hand  to  the  other 
and  gazing  down  with  the  unshadowed  and  firm  eyes 
of  a  captain  who  issues  orders  to  his  crew,  "wants 
plucking  and  drawing.  I've  told  you  before  that 
that's  part  of  your  job.  It's  quite  easy  to  disembowel 
him,  but  getting  the  feathers  off  is  a  slow  process  and  I 
haven't  time  for  it.  You  go  in  and  do  it  or  you  won't 
have  anything  but  porridge  for  breakfast.  Sophy, 
George  has  woke  up  and  threatens  to  get  out  of  bed 
and  come  down  to  supper.  You  might  help  Meredith 
with  his  bird.  It  would  be  something  for  George  to 
amuse  himself  with  if  you  took  it  into  his  room."  He 
departed,  swinging  the  bucket. 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  327 

"D'you  mean  to  tell  me,"  breathed  Sophy,  round- 
eyed,  "she  never  did  give  you  that  photo  after  all?" 

Meredith  got  up  flicking  a  blade  of  grass  from  his 
cuff.     "I   forgot   that  infernal    bird.     Come   aloiv 
Sophy,  we've  received  our  marching  orders." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AND  that  night  there  came  to  Evelyn  his  renais- 
sance. 
He  had  not  foreseen  it:  a  dreamer,  a  labor- 
ious artist,  absorbed  in  his  work,  he  had  not  felt  the 
change  that  was  working  in  him,  and  when  it  forced 
itself  on  his  consciousness  he  was  taken  by  surprise. 
He  had  gone  about  all  the  evening  in  high  elation,  for 
he  had  enjoyed  every  moment  of  his  little  duel  with 
Meredith,  and  it  was  sweet  as  honey  in  its  after-taste; 
but  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  enjoyed  it  because  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  bullied  another  man 
into  obeying  his  orders.  He  had  whistled  as  he  laid 
the  supper,  but  with  no  more  comprehension  of  his 
own  instincts  than  a  robin  in  May.  Dent  was  cheerful 
as  usual,  Meredith  silent  and  stiff,  while  Sophy,  all 
eyes  and  ears,  watched  Evelyn  timidly  as  though  nerv- 
ous of  him;  and  Evelyn  was  amiably  polite  to  all 
three  of  them,  and  ministered  to  their  carnal  needs 
with  fried  trout  and  an  omelette  aux  fines  herbes 
and  white  wine  of  Ronciaulx  and  purple  lowland  figs 
at  fifteen  centimes  a  dozen  with  the  red  pulp  bursting 
out  of  the  seams  of  their  jackets — he  enjoyed  pressing 
those  figs  on  Meredith,  who  was  a  gourmet  and  known 
to  be  fond  of  them.  But  it  was  not  till  after  supper, 
when  the  house  was  quiet  but  for  the  murmur  of  fall- 
ing water  which  haunted  it  day  and  night,  that  he 
began  to  analyse  his  own  sensations. 

Evelyn  was  always  first  to  rise  and  last  to  retire. 

328 


CLAIB  DE  LUNE  329 

Now  that  he  was  no  longer  alone,  he  had  taken  to 
locking  up  at  night.  But  before  doing  so,  as  soon  as 
the  others  were  safe  in  bed,  he  went  up  to  his  bathing 
pool.  The  stream,  shrunk  to  its  old  dimensions,  was 
lipping  placidly  on  its  stone  brim  under  a  dark  fringe 
of  maidenhair;  the  moon,  now  full,  was  hanging  over 
the  valley  like  a  cup  of  pearl,  out  of  which  a  pallor  of 
light  rained  down  evenly  over  opal  cloudland  and 
frozen  peak  and  flowery  turf  and  the  dark  leaf  and 
stem  of  his  sentinel  ash  tree.  He  stripped  and  stood 
for  some  moments  indolently  bathing  in  that  grey 
glow,  which  was  so  tranquil  that  not  a  twig  stirred 
overhead  nor  one  seeding  grass-stalk  moved  at  his  side. 
All  above  him  the  cistus  bushes  and  the  hollies  and  the 
more  loosely  sprinkled  foliage  of  birch  and  alder 
painted  blots  of  shadow,  black  as  jet,  on  slants  of  whit- 
ened turf.  The  surface  of  his  pool  was  glassy  quiet, 
and  like  a  glass  it  reflected  the  moonlight,  and  the 
leaning  ash  tree,  and  a  frieze  of  knotgrass,  and  even  a 
tiny  pattern  of  maidenhair  fronds  along  its  granite  lip. 
The  reflection  of  the  moonlight  was  so  brilliant  that  it 
almost  dazzled  him.  This  was  the  Southern  moonlight 
that  is  as  bright  as  day.  And  slowly,  languidly,  thrill- 
ing as  the  chill  water  crept  up  from  instep  to  knee 
and  from  knee  to  thigh,  Evelyn  waded  into  his  bath 
and  stooped  down  in  it  till  the  wave  was  over  his  head 
and  all  the  world  was  for  him  a  narrow  moonshot 
pool,  a  rippling  gloom  veined  and  glossed  with  silver, 
drenching  his  hair,  fingering  his  eyelids,  taking  his 
breath,  feeling  him  all  over  like  the  fluid  arms  of  some 
Ovidian  nymph. 

Then  with  hair  still  dark  and  wet  Evelyn  returned  to 
the  inn,  threw  down  a  rug  on  the  parlour  floor,  fetched 


330  GLAIR  DE  LUNE 

a  sheet  and  a  pillow,  and  went  to  bed  in  his  usual  way. 
But  he  could  not  sleep.  It  was  hot  in  the  house.  He 
would  rather  have  lain  down  out  of  doors,  but  dared 
not,  in  case  Dent  should  want  anything  in  the  night. 
He  lay  quiet  in  a  ray  of  the  moon,  his  eyes  wide  open, 
the  events  of  the  last  seven  days  flitting  before  him  like 
the  painted  sequence  of  a  dream;  Dent  going  down 
between  hot  cistus  bushes  into  Eia:  Sophy,  moth- 
white  in  the  dusky  parlour:  Meredith  meekly  hand- 
ing over  Kitty's  portrait — and  at  that  point  Evelyn 
began  to  laugh,  burying  his  head  in  his  arms  not  to 
be  overheard:  had  ever  the  tables  been  more  neatly 
turned?  They  were  his  guests.  How  Meredith  must 
be  chafing!  But  for  bare  decency  he  could  not  go  to 
Perpignan  while  Evelyn  was  tied  to  fivol.  He  was 
Evelyn's  guest  and  had  to  do  as  he  was  bid — even 
to  the  extent  of  handing  over  Kitty's  portrait ! 

Dent  too !  Evelyn's  shoulders  were  still  sore  from 
his  encounter  with  Dent,  but  after  saving  Dent's 
life  he  could  afford  to  remember  it  without  bitterness. 
Even  apart  from  that  most  Christian  and  consolatory 
vengeance,  he  felt  fairly  satisfied  with  his  own  be- 
haviour. He  had  not  winced  under  punishment;  he 
had  borne  it  as  well  as  it  could  be  borne,  after  the 
rules  laid  down  for  his  order.  It  was  not  his  fault 
if  Dent  was  too  strong  for  him.  Poor  George !  he  had 
suffered  worse  than  Evelyn,  for  his  righteous  indigna- 
tion had  burnt  out  into  grey  ashes  of  discomfort  and 
remorse,  whereas  Evelyn  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of. 

And  so  he  lay  still  thinking  fast  in  the  moving  moon- 
light :  at  first  incoherently,  scene  after  scene  shaping 
itself  before  his  mind's  eye  without  his  own  will,  but 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  331 

afterwards  in  terms  of  greater  precision,  when  he 
came  to  analyse  not  thoughts  only  but  sensations  too. 
As  the  heat  of  the  house  began  to  supersede  the  fresh 
chill  of  his  bath,  he  became  aware  of  his  own  body, 
drawn  like  a  violin-string  taut  from  head  to  foot  with 
potential  energy,  and  tuned — to  what?  To  the  meas- 
ure of  a  dance  that  kept  time  and  tune  with  the  danc- 
ing rhythm  of  the  universe.  Every  man  to  his  trade : 
the  athlete  in  such  hours,  Greek,  Roman,  or  English, 
sees  himself  hurling  a  discus,  or  bending  a  bow,  or 
kicking  a  goal :  Evelyn  phrased  the  sense  of  power  in 
terms  of  music.  He  was  an  instrument  on  which  im- 
mortal airs  could  be  played :  no — he  was  both  instru- 
ment and  agent,  the  violin  and  the  hand  that  held  it. 
And  still  the  tension  was  drawn  ever  keener  and 
keener  till  a  cry  trembled  on  his  lips.  .  .  .  But  what 
on  earth  was  there  to  set  a  man's  blood  on  fire  in  the 
grave,  dark  inn  of  Evol  standing  solitary  under  that 
rain  of  moonlight?  He  glanced  at  the  watch  on  his 
wrist.  It  was  after  midnight.  No  doubt  the  others 
had  gone  to  sleep  long  ago;  and  why  not  Evelyn? — 
As  well  bid  the  first  violin  sleep  while  the  orchestra 
sways  to  the  rhythm  of  his  bow !  Evelyn  was  violin 
and  orchestra  too. 

He  lay  quiet :  clasped  his  arms  behind  his  head  and 
forced  himself  to  lie  perfectly  quiet,  staring  up  at 
the  whitewashed  ceiling  blackened  by  charcoal  smoke 
and  striped  by  heavy  rafters.  His  moonray  had 
shifted  round  and  was  falling  slant  across  his  throat 
and  shoulders,  leaving  his  eyes  in  gloom.  An  immense 
moth  had  strayed  in  and  was  fluttering  about  now 
high,  now  low,  its  faint  shadow  following  it.  And 
still  those  waves  of  sensation,  too  sweet  for  pain,  too 


332  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

restless  for  pleasure,  came  thrilling  over  his  limbs: 
waves  of  power,  of  energy,  of  vital  force,  like  an  in- 
coming tide  that  slowly  washed  up  over  him  from  his 
feet  to  his  head.  In  his  nervous,  strained  boyhood  he 
had  never  felt  anything  like  them,  unless  it  were  on 
those  nights  of  glamour  when  he  had  slipped  out  of 
Temple  Evelyn  to  lie  on  the  grass  of  the  Roman  Road. 

But  on  the  Roman  Road  he  had  been  happy  be- 
cause he  was  alone :  and  so  too  at  Evol,  under  those 
fields  of  blue  air  where  the  hawk  and  the  vulture 
wheeled  and  fell,  or  the  moon  rained  down  her  clear 
light.  Now  however  he  was  no  longer  alone,  and  yet 
he  was  happy. 

Yes,  and  happier  than  ever,  and  stronger,  and  more 
fully  alive :  and  what  was  so  strange  was  that  the  in- 
truders overhead  went  far  to  make  him  so !  Dent  in 
bed  in  borrowed  pyjamas,  Meredith  gloomily  trussing 
his  fowl,  he  had  the  whip  hand  of  both  of  them — he 
was  captain  and  they  were  crew.  So  far  as  other  men 
were  concerned,  Evelyn  felt  that  he  was  at  last  getting 
into  right  relations  with  the  world :  a  man's  large  free- 
dom of  give  and  take,  sure  of  his  own  footing  and 
therefore  indifferent  to  the  pressure  of  other  lives. 

And  then  there  was  Clair  de  Lune  boxed  up  in  the 
biscuit  tin !  Never  before  had  Evelyn  laid  his  work  by 
when  he  was  in  the  thick  of  it  without  a  miserable 
ache  of  fear.  Suppose  one's  imagination  ran  dry? 
The  mood  of  every  artist  in  his  fits  of  despondence— 
"I  shall  never  paint  another  stroke,"  "I  shall  never 
write  another  line," — had  been  Evelyn's  normal  frame 
of  mind.  Joyous  hours  of  inspiration  had  come  as  a 
caprice  of  good  luck,  on  butterfly  wings.  Never  had 
he  felt  sure  of  himself  beyond  the  morrow.  Delays 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  333 

and  hindrances  had  been  magnified  from  a  trifling 
vexation  into  torture  by  this  secret  nervous  dread. 
It  was  an  absurd  fear  to  be  cherished  by  a  man  like 
Evelyn,  a  musician  born  and  bred,  who  had  been  found 
at  two  years  of  age  squatting  on  a  fender  stool  ab- 
sorbed in  the  tune  played  by  the  nursery  kettle,  and 
gravely  trying  in  his  infant  treble  to  fit  it  with  an  ob- 
bligato:  but  it  was  a  real  fear  all  the  same,  and  a 
dangerous,  for,  in  the  inevitable  interaction  of  nerve 
and  brain,  it  had  often  produced  the  paralysis  it 
threatened.  Now  however,  taking  account  with  his 
own  soul,  Evelyn  swore  that  he  would  finish  Clair  de 
Lune  if  he  lived,  to-morrow  if  not  to-day,  next  year  if 
not  this  year ! — he  had  in  time  the  courage  for  it,  and 
the  craftsmanship,  and  the  judgment,  and  above  all 
the  great  creative  vision  that  feeds  the  springs  of  art. 

And  when  it  was  done  he  would  go  on  to  better 
work,  to  work  more  solid  and  strong  and  lasting:  to 
the  Passion  of  which  he  had  talked  to  Sophy,  or  an 
Arab  Symphony  whose  spacious  barbaric  curves  had 
long  run  in  his  head,  or  perhaps  the  Requiem,  191^ 
over  which  his  undermind  had  brooded  even  while 
H.  E.  and  rifle-fire  were  deafening  him  with  their  in- 
fernal duet :  never  mind  whether  he  could  get  it  pro- 
duced or  no  or  whether  critics  and  compeers  praised 
or  blamed,  done  it  should  be  from  the  only  motive 
that  ought  to  count  with  an  artist — because  power 
and  vision  and  will  are  fused  in  one  force  which  drives 
to  its  outlet  in  creation.  .  .  . 

But  what  on  earth  was  to  be  done  with  Eitty? 

Kitty,  his  wife,  who  was  prepared  to  give  herself 
to  Meredith !  Evelyn  drew  a  long  sigh  and  turned 
over,  clenching  his  hands  till  their  knuckles  whitened 


334  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

in  the  moonlight.  "Hang  it,  she's  my  wife,"  he  re- 
flected with  a  laugh  under  his  breath.  "She  has  been 
my  wife.  .  .  ."  And  suddenly  he  found  himself  re- 
calling certain  moments  of  their  married  life  in  a 
brooding  heat  of  memory  which  beggared  sensation. 
Out  of  those  hours  of  dalliance  he  had  always  emerged 
unhappy,  restless,  and  profoundly  ashamed,  but  he 
felt  no  shame  now  and  no  conflict,  for  in  this  fresh 
strength  that  had  come  on  him  all  dissensions  were 
reconciled:  and  latent  far  down  in  him  he  felt  the 
forces  of  life  moving  towards  their  end,  which  was  to 
beget  life :  blind  and  slow  forces,  but  inexorable,  and 
no  more  willing  to  satisfy  themselves  through  purely 
intellectual  pleasures,  than  is  a  tree  in  April  to  put 
forth  flowers  and  no  leaves.  They  moved  towards  wife 
and  child :  and  they  were  irresistible  because  the  force 
of  all  the  world  went  with  them. 

But  they  were  blind  forces.  In  regard  to  Meredith, 
and  Dent,  and  Clair  de  Lune,  Evelyn  knew  where  he 
stood  and  what  he  was  doing:  but  he  was  far  from 
having  mastered  these  old,  dim,  latent,  and  universal 
instincts,  which  carried  him  along  like  a  leaf  on  the 
rhythm  of  the  world.  In  his  married  life  he  had 
never  known  his  way,  nor  did  he  know  it  now. 

His  view  of  his  duty  to  his  wife  was  purely  external. 
He  never  had  thought  it  out  for  himself.  In  the 
Hunting  Tower  he  had  found  out  that  she  loved  him. 
A  secondhand  code  of  chivalry  indicated  marriage, 
and  he  married  her :  only  to  tangle  himself  in  a  net- 
work of  delicate  evasions  and  hypocrisies,  because  he 
did  not  like  being  married  to  her.  As  soon  as  she 
gave  him  an  excuse  he  ran  away  from  her.  His  precip- 
itate blind  flight  to  6vol  had  at  least  the  merit  of  its 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  335 

spontaneity!  It  was  perhaps  the  one  perfectly  sin- 
cere thing  Evelyn  had  done  in  all  his  dealings  with 
Kitty.  But  he  had  not  been  able  to  keep  on  the  same 
level ;  when  he  found  that  Meredith  desired  Kitty  he 
had  relapsed  into  the  conventional  attitude.  No  man 
can  be  called  by  a  more  odious  name  than  that  of  the 
complaisant  husband,  and  it  should  never  be  applied 
to  him.  Beyond  that  point  he  had  not  gone.  He  had 
never  asked  himself  whether  he  deserved  to  hold  Kitty, 
or  whether  in  the  end  an  irregular  readjustment  might 
not  be,  for  them  all,  the  best  way  out.  No  man  should^ 
call  him  a  complaisant  husband !  And  so  he  had  de- 
fied and  mated  Meredith  and  had  taken  Kitty's  por- 
trait from  him — and  by  the  by  what  had  he  done  with 
that  portrait? 

He  had  slipped  it  into  the  breast  of  his  shirt,  partly 
because  that  seemed  to  be  the  proper  thing  to  do  and 
partly  because  he  had  no  jacket  on  and  it  was  too 
large  to  go  into  the  pockets  of  his  flannel  trousers. 
When  he  came  back  with  his  bucket  of  water  and 
turned  in  to  light  his  Primus  and  boil  a  kettle  for  sup- 
per, it  had  got  in  his  way  and  the  sharp  edges  of 
cardboard  had  pricked  him,  and  he  had  taken  it  out 
and  put  it — now  where  had  he  put  it?  Evelyn's  happy 
smile  became  sheepish  and  sickly  when  it  dawned  on 
him  that  he  had  left  his  wife's  portrait  inside  the  tin 
of  Quaker  Oats!  By  the  code  of  eternal  Aphrodite, 
it  had  better  have  been  left  inside  Meredith's  waist- 
coat. 

And  yet — no,  for  it  was  Kitty's  portrait,  and  Kitty 
was  his  wife :  he  had  never  loved  her,  and  apparently 
she  had  ended  by  not  loving  him,  but  no  other  man 
had  ever  known  her  as  he  knew  her:  touch  her  who 


336  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

dare!  "She  has  slept  in  my  arms,"  he  said  under 
his  breath,  and  frowning  he  turned  over  again  to  face 
the  moonlight.  The  house  was  deathly  quiet.  Indoors 
he  could  hear  no  sound  but  the  ticking  of  his  watch, 
and  the  louder  whirr  of  Monsieur  Blanc's  brass- 
weighted  pendulum,  and  a  dry  rustle  of  moth-wings 
among  rafters,  and  the  beating  of  his  own  heart,  loud- 
est of  all.  "And,  by  heaven,  she  shall  be  my  wife 
again." 

.  .  .  and  then  there  was  Sophy:  once  Meredith's 
sweetheart  by  her  own  confession,  since  then  the  light 
o'  love  of  many  men,  now,  if  he  cared  to  take  her,  his 
own.  How  loud  the  beating  of  his  heart  sounded  in  the 
midnight  quiet !  He  touched  it  and  found  it  throbbing 
like  a  hammer.  How  strange !  He  debated  this  phe- 
nomenon as  well  as  he  could  for  the  cobwebs  that  still 
clouded  his  brain,  and  supposed  that  he  was  at  last 
beginning  to  feel  as  other  men  felt  towards  these 
women  who  gave  so  much  and  asked  so  little.  He 
had  heard  the  taunt,  if  it  was  a  taunt,  that  Sophy 
had  flung  at  Meredith — "If  it  was  you  I  should  have 
been  yours,  shouldn't  I?"  This  then  was  where  he  fell 
short  of  other  men.  Moving  blindfold,  Evelyn 
travelled  by  Heaven  knows  what  bypaths  of  instinct 
diverted  by  tradition,  when  he  should  have  followed 
his  instincts  alone;  they  had  led  him  right  for  Mere- 
dith and  for  Clair  de  Lune,  but  for  Sophy  as  for  his 
wife  they  failed  him — or  he  deserted  them.  For  here 
it  was  harder  to  find  his  way — so  many  thousands  of 
other  men  had  trodden  the  wrong  road  before  him. 

And  still  the  wild  surge  of  life  continued  to  stream 
through  him  in  ever-mounting  strength,  and  still  un- 
disciplined. The  low  parlour  lit  by  one  moon-ray  had 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  337 

grown  too  dark  and  hot  for  him,  and  the  flutter,  flutter 
of  the  moth  irritated  him.  Evelyn  flung  off  his  sheet 
and  stood  up.  The  moth  had  settled  on  the  ledge 
of  the  piano  and  sat  there  slowly  folding  its  drowsy 
vans :  a  happy  night-wanderer,  the  freaked  wings  thick 
in  bloom.  As  soon  as  he  tried  to  seize  it  and  put  it 
through  the  window,  it  rose  again  and  fluttered  a  few 
inches  away,  out  of  his  reach.  Its  aimless  activity 
and  silly  fear  provoked  Evelyn.  He  took  a  swift  step 
forward  and  caught  and  crushed  it  in  his  hand.  He 
had  never  done  such  a  thing  before  in  his  life.  He 
opened  his  palm  and  looked  down  at  the  small  wreck 
of  plumage.  Dead!  no  more  flutterings:  the  rich 
wings  were  a  mere  smudge  on  his  fingers.  He  shook 
it  off  and  opened  the  parlour  door. 

All  the  house  was  hushed  now  but  for  the  murmur 
of  brooks  and  runnels  that  encompassed  it.  Bare- 
foot, he  went  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  The  door 
of  Dent's  room  was  shut ;  it  had  been  agreed  that  he 
no  longer  needed  Sophy's  ministrations.  Treading 
softly,  Evelyn  listened  at  the  keyhole.  He  could  dis- 
tinguish Dent's  regular  breathing,  but  no  sound  from 
Meredith.  Evelyn  shrugged  his  shoulders :  if  Meredith 
were  awake  what  would  it  signify?  He  did  not  realise 
that  in  his  excitement  he  was  more  reckless  than  Mere- 
dith would  have  been  in  his  place,  just  as  Meredith, 
though  he  did  not  care  for  animals  or  pity  them,  would 
scarcely  have  crushed  the  moth  in  his  bare  hand.  Eve- 
lyn tried  the  opposite  door.  It  was  not  locked.  He 
opened  it  noiselessly  and  went  in  without  knocking. 

The  room,  his  own  room,  was  bathed  in  moonlight 
and  on  his  bed  under  the  open  window  Sophy  lay 
asleep.  She  had  pulled  the  sheet  half  over  her  head 


338  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

and  nothing  much  of  her  was  visible  except  two  long 
brown  plaits  thrown  back  on  her  pillow  and  her  thick 
brown  eyebrows  and  the  tip  of  her  nose.  Alone  in 
the  house  with  three  men  one  of  whom  she  loved  while 
another  had  been  her  lover,  she  slept  as  placidly  as 
an  infant.  Evelyn  shut  the  door  behind  him  without 
a  sound  and  stood  watching  her.  What  had  he  come 
to  find?  Not  this  tranquillity  of  innocence.  Her  life 
had  written  no  mark  on  her,  so  far:  even  her  lips, 
which  quickly  betray  the  sensual  nature  by  their  droop 
of  fatigue,  were  as  firmly  and  as  delicately  set  as  the 
lips  of  his  wife.  There  was  nothing  of  the  moth  in 
Sophy.  A  tinge  of  sadness  darkened  that  strong  little 
face,  but  not  a  tinge  of  fear. 

Evelyn  stood  watching  her  so  long  that  the  moon- 
light perceptibly  shifted  its  pale  quadrangle  on  the 
floor.  Shadow  invaded  Sophy's  silken  head.  She 
slept  sound,  tired  after  her  broken  nights.  The  roar 
of  the  torrent  in  the  valley-bottom  came  in  through 
the  open  window  like  the  washing  of  waves  of  moon- 
light made  vocal,  blown  by  the  wind. 

A  chime  struck  in  the  parlour :  Un — deux — trois — 
quatre,  and  then  on  a  deeper  tone,  Un :  Deux.  It  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Before  long  the  moon 
would  be  down  in  the  western  valley,  and  the  roses  of 
dawn  would  begin  to  blossom  out  of  blue  air.  Evelyn 
raised  his  head  with  a  start  and  looked  round  him  as 
if  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  doing,  or  had  dreamed 
of  doing.  But  he  was  in  Sophy's  room  and  Sophy 
was  at  his  mercy.  She  loved  him  now  as  she  had  loved 
Meredith  at  Fontainebleau,  and  would  love  other  men, 
perhaps,  in  the  future:  poor  Sophy,  destined  to  ad- 
ventures! He  had  come  to  prove  his  manhood.  .  .  . 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  339 

Sophy  stirred  and  turned  on  her  pillow,  giving  a  little 
sigh  like  a  tired  dog.  "I  love  you  for  being  good" — 
Evelyn  had  not  forgotten  that  cry,  which  had  put  him 
to  shame  even  when  he  deserved  it,  and  if  he  ceased  to 
deserve  it  what  sort  of  memory  would  it  come  to  be? 
It  was  the  cry  of  an  essentially  innocent  heart.  .  .  . 
Evelyn  drew  back  with  a  reflective  smile.  Not  by 
trampling  down  a  flower  that  had  just  begun  to  lift  up 
its  head  would  he  prove  his  manhood. 

Noiseless  he  had  entered  Sophy's  room,  noiseless 
he  left  it;  but  in  a  sleeping  house  those  who  cannot 
sleep  feel  the  vibration  of  movement  even  when  it 
makes  no  sound,  and  as  he  closed  Sophy's  door  Mere- 
dith came  out  of  Dent's  room.  They  met  face  to  face  on 
the  narrow  landing.  It  was  not  dawn  yet  and  there 
was  no  light  but  a  glimmer  from  Meredith's  north 
window.  He  stood  still  blocking  the  way  to  the  stairs 
with  his  broad  shoulders  and  handsome,  coldly  amused 
face. 

"I  have  my  evidence  now  and  I  shall  use  it,  Evelyn. 
I  shall  not  scruple  to  let  your  wife  and  Dent  know 
that  I  found  you  coming  out  of  Sophy's  room." 

"Hush,"  said  Evelyn  under  his  breath,  "she  was 
very  tired — she  is  asleep." 

"What's  the  matter?"  Dent  called  through  the  open 
doorway.  He  had  heard  their  voices  and  had  raised 
himself  on  his  pillow  to  follow  Meredith's  movements 
with  the  anxious  strained  eyes  of  the  sick  man  un- 
used to  helplessness.  "Is  anything  wrong?" 

"Now,  how  careless  you  are,  Meredith !"  said  Eve- 
lyn reproachfully.  He  brushed  past  Meredith  and 
went  up  to  Dent.  "Nothing  at  all,  old  fellow.  Mere- 
dith heard  me  moving  about  and  came  out  to  see  if 


340  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

he  could  make  himself  useful,  but  he  couldn't.  You 
lie  still  or  you'll  send  your  temperature  up  again,  and 
the  more  you  do  that  the  longer  it'll  be  before  we 
can  ship  you  back  to  Perpignan."  He  smiled  at  Mere- 
dith, who  found  some  difficulty  in  containing  his 
anger.  But  Evelyn  had  the  whip  hand  of  him — there 
was  Dent's  temperature  to  be  considered !  "And  you 
must  be  dying  to  get  back  to  Perpignan,"  Evelyn  con- 
tinued, smiling  into  Dent's  eyes,  "think  of  Kitty  left 
there  all  alone !  So  now  you  go  to  sleep." 

''What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Dent  asked,  con- 
tentedly leaning  his  head  on  Evelyn's  arm  while  Eve- 
lyn turned  his  hot  pillow  and  patted  it  into  shape: 
"you  look  as  wide  awake  as  though  it  were  the  middle 
of  the  day  instead  of  the  middle  of  the  night !" 

"All  Meredith's  fault,  it  was  him  you  heard  not  me. 
Get  back  to  bed,  Edmund,  and  if  you  hear  any  more 
noises  don't  prowl  round :  this  is  my  house  not  yours 
and  I  always  sleep  with  one  ear  open :  you  go  to 
the  Land  of  Nod  and  stay  there."  He  gave  Meredith 
a  little  push  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  towards  the 
opposite  alcove. 

Meredith  was  white  with  passion.  Evelyn  in  the 
imperative  mood  was  an  Evelyn  whom  he  would 
have  liked  to  shoot !  But  one  cannot  shoot  one's  host 
or  even  throw  him  downstairs,  and  he  had  to  stand 
by  inactive  while  the  delinquent,  still  broadly  smil- 
ing, walked  out  of  the  room.  Whither?  Not  back  to 
his  own  hard  bed  on  the  parlour  floor. 

Dent  was  asleep  again  in  five  minutes,  but  for  Mere- 
dith no  more  sleep  was  to  be  had  that  night.  Through- 
out the  chill  still  hours  before  dawn  he  lay  listening 
to  noises  downstairs,  small  hushed  sounds,  such  a 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  341 

stir  of  movement  as  a  brownie  might  make  over  his 
nocturnal  tasks :  once  or  twice  the  kitchen  door  opened 
and  he  heard  steps  in  the  yard :  he  racked  his  brains 
to  guess  what  Evelyn  was  doing,  but  in  vain.  There 
was  at  all  events  no  footfall  on  the  landing,  no  fresh 
opening  of  Sophy's  door. 

After  the  sun  was  up  all  noises  ceased,  and  then 
Meredith  fell  asleep.  He  woke  late — or  rather  was 
awakened  by  a  knocking.  The  room  was  flooded 
with  misty  blue  daylight,  the  north  window  framed 
a  square  of  sky  "dark  with  excess  of  light"  and  a 
grey  peak  sungilt  over  a  garland  of  haze.  Meredith 
sprang  out  of  bed,  glanced  at  Dent  who  was  yawning 
and  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  called  out  "Come  in,"  ex- 
pecting Evelyn  with  Dent's  breakfast.  But  no  one 
came  in. 

"It's  me — Sophy.    Are  you  up?" 

"Yes,  but  not  dressed.  I  overslept.  I'll  be  down 
in  ten  minutes.  Is  Evelyn  there?" 

"I  can't  find  him  anywhere!" 

"What!"  said  Meredith,  flinging  open  the  door. 

"There's  water  in  the  bucket,  and  faggots  piled 
by  the  fireplace,  and  the  eggs  and  all  put  ready  for 
me  to  cook  breakfast,  but  I  can't  find  Eve,  and  the 
parlour  door's  unlocked.  He  seems  to  have  gone." 

"Gone  where?" 

"How  on  earth  should  I  know?"  Sophy  resentfully 
demanded.  "I'm  not  his  nursemaid,  am  I?  Yon 
always  expect  me  to  know  everything!" 

"You  saw  him  last." 

"I  didn't!  You  came  up  after  I  did.  You  were 
out  smoking  on  the  terrasse  till  nearly  eleven  o'clock, 
for  I  heard  you  come  up,  and  jolly  cross  I  felt,  with 


342  CLAIK  DE  LUNE 

poor  Mr.  Dent  not  able  to  go  to  sleep  till  you  were 
in  bed !  /  never  went  downstairs  again  after  supper." 

"Sophy,"  said  Meredith,  dropping  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders,  "you  saw  him  last !" 

"I  didn't,  Edmund!"  She  raised  her  hazel  eyes, 
wells  of  truth,  clear  and  dauntless,  not  a  shade  of 
any  feeling  in  them  but  bewilderment  and  irrita- 
tion, and,  as  his  grip  tightened,  a  twinge  of  actual 
pain.  "The  last  thing  I  said  to  him  was  goodnight 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  you  hadn't  come  up 
then.  Besides  if  I  had  it  doesn't  follow  he'd  have 
told  me  where  he  was  going  to,  does  it?  I'm  not  his 
wife! — What  are  you  doing?"  Involuntarily  Mere- 
dith had  clenched  his  strong  hands  on  her  as  if  he 
would  have  wrung  the  truth  out  of  her  by  force.  But 
when  had  Sophy  told  him  a  lie?  She  was  transpar- 
ently honest  and  he  knew  it  and  could  have  struck 
her  for  it. 

"Don't,  Edmund!    You  hurt!" 

"Drop  it  Meredith.  It  isn't  Miss  Sophy's  fault  if 
Eve's  stolen  a  march  on  us." 

Meredith  released  Sophy  and  turned  round.  Dent 
was  sitting  up  in  bed,  propped  on  one  arm.  His  good- 
humoured  red-brown  face  was  quite  grave  but  his 
eyes  were  dancing.  "What's  the  odds  he's  gone  off 
to  Perpignan?"  he  said,  innocently  turning  them  from 
Meredith  to  Sophy  and  back  to  Meredith  again.  "He's 
such  a  considerate  chap  is  Eve,  and  he  knows  Kitty 
will  be  worrying.  Yes,  that's  it,  I'd  lay  any  odds; 
I  thought  something  was  up  from  his  manner  when  he 
came  in  here  last  night.  Yes,  he  did  say  he  was  too 
busy  to  go,  didn't  he?  but  Eve  says  a  lot  of  things 
he  never  means  to  stick  to.  I  thought  he  was  working 


CLAIE  DE  LUNE  343 

up  in  that  direction,  these  last  few  days.  And  a  good 
job  too!  I  dare  say  you've  heard,  Miss  Sophy,  that 
he's  had  a  bit  of  a  tiff  with  my  sister.  But  it'll  soon 
come  right  when  once  they're  face  to  face;  outsiders 
never  ought  to  shove  their  oar  in  between  husband  and 
wife." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

KITTY  was  not  of  an  impatient  temper,  but  in 
those  hot  summer  days  after  the  storm  she 
rapidly  came  to  hate  Perpignan  as  she  had 
never  hated  any  spot  before.  Not  that  she  was  anx- 
ious about  George :  at  the  outset  a  long  telegram  told 
her  precisely  what  had  happened,  and  every  day  later 
she  received  a  bulletin  describing  the  condition  of  the 
invalid  and  the  progress  of  the  roadmending  gang. 
He  would  be  with  her  probably  in  a  fortnight  at  most. 
Still  a  fortnight  is  a  long  time  to  wait  in  Kitty's 
state  of  helpless  uncertainty.  She  would  have  liked 
to  go  to  £vol  but  dared  not ;  if  one  roof  had  sheltered 
her  and  Evelyn  and  Meredith,  the  situation  would 
have  become  too  delicate !  She  was  not  even  sure  who 
wrote  her  telegrams,  for  they  were  colourless  and 
unsigned,  and  referred  to  Dent  and  Meredith  and  Eve- 
lyn all  in  the  third  person,  as  if  the  writer  were  some 
being  from  a  higher  sphere:  she  suspected  Evelyn's 
hand,  because  they  could  not  come  from  Dent,  and 
this  odd  trick  of  sending  them  unsigned  was  more  like 
Evelyn  than  Meredith:  her  own  style  was  equally 
colourless,  and  she  too  put  no  signature,  because  she 
could  not  sign  herself  "Kitty"  to  Meredith,  nor  "Kitty 
Evelyn"  to  Evelyn.  They  irritated  her  beyond  words. 
But  on  the  seventh  day,  when  evening  drew  on 
without  bringing  her  any  telegram  at  all,  irritating 
or  no,  Kitty  felt  so  restless  and  harassed  that  she 
could  have  wept.  It  had  been  hot  in  Perpignan— 

344 


GLAIR  DE  LUNE  345 

brutally  hot.  Into  the  lowland  township  the  sun 
beat  like  a  fierce  enemy  come  to  assault  it  and  take 
it  by  storm.  Dust  drifted  inches  deep  in  alley  and 
square,  paint  blistered  on  the  green  sunshutters,  and 
the  leaves  even  of  the  sycomores  flagged  and  faded. 
To  walk  in  the  streets  was  to  have  one's  eyes  dazzled 
and  one's  cheeks  scorched  by  the  glow  reflected  from 
house  walls  shining  in  ivory  or  honey-colour  or  the  red 
of  desert  sand.  Most  of  the  population,  including 
Kitty,  stayed  within  doors  till  six  o'clock.  Not  till 
the  sun  began  to  creep  downhill,  and  the  savagery 
of  his  gold  stare  to  abate,  and  the  tramontane  to  blow 
in  puffs  of  balm,  did  they  come  out  into  the  air;  and 
even  then  they  only  moved  slowly  from  one  patch  of 
shadow  to  another,  fanning  themselves  with  little 
paper  fans  or  sipping  iced  drinks  at  caf6  tables,  the 
women  putting  back  their  long  black  veils  and  the 
men  lighting  cigarettes  to  keep  away  flies. 

Kitty,  English  from  head  to  heel  in  her  grey  chiffon 
dress  and  grey  slippers,  went  no  further  than  the 
flowery  patio  of  her  inn.  Her  little  waiter,  amiable 
and  absurd  with  his  little  snub  nose  and  red  moustache 
turning  up  at  the  tips,  knew  what  she  wanted  and 
brought  it  in  a  twinkling :  a  plate  of  biscuits  and  her 
own  spirit  kettle,  on  which  it  pleased  her  to  boil  water 
and  make  her  own  tea.  The  process  amused  Jules,  who 
hovered  round  her  obviously  taking  notes.  He  had 
already  confided  to  her,  between  courses  at  table 
d'hote,  that  his  ambition  was  to  make  the  voyage  to 
London,  where  one  sees  life  and  puts  by  money.  Kitty, 
like  many  another  respectable  and  conscientious 
Englishwoman,  had  smuggled  a  pound  of  the  best 
Souchong  through  the  customs.  She  had  not  paid 


346  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

duty  on  it  because  she  had  feared  that  the  Revenue 
officers  might  succumb  to  temptation  and  impound 
it.  This  illegal  act  sat  light  on  her  spirits,  and 
Dent,  though  he  threatened  to  denounce  her,  had 
vastly  enjoyed  what  he  called  a  decent  English  cup  of 
tea,  while  Meredith  had  admired  the  calm  determi- 
nation with  which  Mrs.  Evelyn,  when  it  did  not  suit 
her  to  conform  to  French  fashions,  made  herself  com- 
fortable in  her  own  way. 

She  had  just  put  two  spoonfuls  into  the  pot  when 
Jules,  who  had  drifted  indoors,  drifted  out  again 
all  smiles :  "A  gentleman  to  see  Madame."  Jules  was 
truly  sorry  for  Madame,  whose  Mayblossom  complex- 
ion charmed  his  eyes  accustomed  to  the  brunette  skins 
of  the  South.  All  the  hotel  indeed  was  sorry  for  her — 
it  was  so  triste  for  her  to  be  left  alone,  since  at  her 
age  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  go  about  by  herself. 
Kitty  started,  almost  imperceptibly:  the  hand  that 
held  the  teaspoon  was  checked  for  one  moment  .  .  . 
only  for  one  moment,  while  she  looked  up  at  Jules 
with  the  smile  of  the  woman  accustomed  to  bewitch 
men,  even  the  Jules  of  a  French  inn.  It  was  not  one 
of  the  Messieurs  who  had  gone  to  fevol?  Alas!  no — 
Jules,  desolated  at  not  being  able  to  produce  the  right 
person,  raised  his  hands  and  let  them  fall  again,  palms 
out.  It  was  a  Monsieur  not  very  tall,  but  (hopefully) 
fair,  fair  like  a  Frenchman  of  the  north,  and  had  the 
eyes  gay  and  the  manner  lively  and  agreeable.  Would 
Jules  then  have  the  kindness  to  produce  this  Mon- 
sieur? Jules  flew. 

And  Kitty  finished  making  the  tea.    She  had  enough 
presence  of  mind  to  put  in  an  extra  spoonful  and 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  347 

fill  the  pot  to  the  brim.  Evelyn  always  took  three 
cups. 

A  moment  later  Jules  held  up  the  myriad  strings  of 
glass  beads  that  formed  a  twinkling  portiere,  and 
Evelyn  emerged.  Before  he  reached  her  Kitty  had 
framed  a  series  of  vivid  and  fresh  impressions  of  him 
— that  he  was  burnt  brown  like  a  gipsy,  that  he  was 
looking  extraordinarily  handsome  and  daredevil,  and 
that  for  once  he  was  not  at  all  nervous  and  she  would 
not  have  to  wear  out  her  own  slender  stock  of  com- 
posure in  setting  him  at  ease.  Evelyn,  was  for  him, 
unusually  point  device.  Like  his  wife  he  was  in  light 
clothes :  a  linen  coat,  a  white  shirt  with  a  turn-down 
collar,  white  string-soled  shoes  of  the  country,  and 
the  prettiest  of  the  ties  that  he  "wore  to  Ria,"  pale 
green  and  loosely  knotted  after  the  fashion  of  a  French 
student.  His  costume  in  short  was  a  trifle  foreign 
and  more  than  a  trifle  picturesque,  but  it  suited  him, 
and  Kitty,  though  she  knew  exactly  what  Meredith 
would  have  thought  of  it,  was  incapable  of  criticism, 
when  he  came  up  to  her  taking  off  his  hat  and  smiling 
with  what  she  allowed  herself  to  call  the  Devil's  own 
impudence  into  her  astonished  eyes. 

"Kitty,  how  nice  it  is  to  see  you  again,  and  how 
charmingly — er — cool  you  look!  Are  you  going  to 
offer  me  an  English  cup  of  tea?" 

"Three,"  said  Kitty,  giving  him  her  hand.  "Thank 
you,  Jules."  Jules  had  returned  with  a  second  deck 
chair,  and  Evelyn  dropped  into  it  and  crossed  his  legs. 
"How  is  George?" 

"Ever  so  much  better — fit  to  travel  in  a  day  or  two. 
His  temperature  was  practically  normal  last  night. 


348  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

I  do  hope  you  haven't  been  anxious!  You  had  our 
wires  every  day?" 

"I  did  have  wires  every  day:  yours,  I  suppose, 
weren't  they?" 

"You  recognised  the  signature?"  Evelyn  enquired 
with  a  wide  grin. 

"I  didn't  think  Mr.  Meredith  would  have  been  such 
a  schoolboy." 

"What  jolly  biscuits!  May  I  have  all  the  sugar 
ones?  You  never  did  like  them,  and  I  don't  get 
gateaux  at  6vol.  It's  the  most  God-forsaken  spot  you 
ever  saw  in  all  your  born  days :  two  miles  from  a  house, 
and  that's  only  what  they  call  a  metairie,  a  farm  and 
out-buildings,  and  ten  from  the  railway.  I  live 
on  milk  and  eggs  and  sardines  and  the  spoils  of  the 
chase.  I've  been  looking  forward  all  day  to  my  dinner 
to-night." 

"Where  are  you  staying?" 

"Here — so  I  hope  they  feed  you  well.  I  want  eight 
courses." 

"Have  you  engaged  a  room?  I  thought  the  hotel 
was  full,"  said  Kitty,  stirring  her  tea. 

"So  it  is :  I've  bagged  Meredith's,"  was  the  cheerful 
reply,  "so  that  I  can  use  his  things.  I  settled  to  before 
I  came  off.  No,  I  didn't  ask  Meredith,  I  simply  set- 
tled in  my  own  mind.  It  saved  a  lot  of  trouble,  be- 
cause with  ten  miles  to  cover  you  want  to  march  light. 
I  haven't  brought  anything  except  a  toothbrush." 
Kitty  went  on  stirring  her  tea.  She  felt  helpless  and 
weak  and  incredibly  resigned,  like  a  swimmer  in  the 
last  stages  of  drowning.  "I  can't  help  wondering," 
Evelyn  pursued  his  easy  flow,  "how  George  will  get 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  349 

on  without  me.  Meredith  doesn't  shine  as  a  house- 
maid. I've  had  a  tremendous  job  breaking  him  in.  I 
never  even  tried  to  coach  him  up  in  the  more  domestic 
duties.  What  I  did  feel  "was  that  if  I  made  the  beds, 
and  did  the  sweeping  and  the  scrubbing  and  the  dust- 
ing, the  least  he  could  do  was  to  not  only  shoot  rabbits 
for  us  and  catch  fish  but  skin  'em  and  gut  'em  as  well. 
Oh,  I  assure  you  he's  learnt  a  lot  since  he's  been  at 
Evol!  He  can  truss  a  hen  now  in  a  most  scientific 
manner.  But  he  still  doesn't  love  doing  it :  he  chafes." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  said  Kitty  flatly. 

"You  wait  and  see.  I  had  to  stand  over  him  at  first 
but  now  he  can  be  trusted  by  himself.  But  he  can't 
cook — Sophy  and  I  had  to  do  that  between  us." 

"Who  is  Sophy— the  bonne?" 

"No."  Evelyn  set  down  his  cup  and  drew  in  his  legs. 
"I'm  glad  you  ask,  because  it  shows  that  Meredith 
hasn't  written  to  you  yet.  I  didn't  think  he  would, 
but  with  Meredith  one  can't  always  be  sure.  Sophy  is 
Sophy  Carter,  the  pretty  girl  who  used  to  live  over 
us  in  Chelsea.  Do  you  remember  her?  you  used  to 
say  you  liked  the  look  of  her." 

Kitty's  wide  eyelids  drooped.  "I  remember  very 
well." 

"She  has  been  staying  with  me  for  a  few  days.  We 
were  alone  in  the  house  the  first  night,"  Evelyn  pur- 
sued with  easy  emphasis.  "She  was  not  there  when 
George  first  came  over  to  look  me  up,  but  I  found 
her  waiting  for  me  when  I  got  back  from  seeing  him 
off  at  Ria.  Sophy's  standards  aren't  conventional. 
She  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine  and  I'm  very  fond  of 
her,  but  her  life  hasn't  been  irreproachable,  and  that 


350  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

was  one  reason  why  I  never  took  you  up  to  see  her  in 
Chelsea.  The  other  was  that  I  was  too  sorry  for  my- 
self to  be  sorry  for  other  people.  It  was  bad  and 
ungrateful  behaviour,  and  I  owe  Sophy  an  apology  for 
it,  for  I've  since  found  out  that  she  felt  it  a  good  deal. 
Women  in  her  position  are  naturally  sensitive.  But 
now  I  want  you  to  know  her.  She's  been  trying  hard 
to  keep  straight,  but  her  loneliness  has  made  it  very 
difficult,  because  when  a  woman  is  as  lovely  as  Sophy 
there's  always  a  man  waiting  on  her  doorstep,  and 
she's  tempted  to  let  him  in  if  it  were  only  to  scare 
away  ghosts.  If  you  would  be  kind  to  her,  go  and 
see  her  now  and  then  and  let  her  come  and  see  us,  it 
would  make  all  the  difference.  And  you  will,  won't 
you?  I've  arranged  for  you  to  go  back  with  me  to 
ifevol  to-morrow — " 

"You've  done  what?"  Kitty  cried,  starting  from 
her  chair. 

"Be  calm,"  Evelyn  retained  his  own,  "there's  noth- 
ing to  be  frightened  at !  The  road  is  open  for  traffic 
to-day,  and  I  hunted  up  a  market  cart,  one  of  those 
jolly  little  gigs  with  canvas  hoods,  to  meet  the  train 
from  Perpignan  in  the  morning.  The  four-wheelers 
are  the  very  deuce,  but  the  two-wheelers  don't  joggle 
much.  Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  walk  you  ten 
miles  uphill  on  those  little  velvet  paws?  Oh  no! 
oh  no!  The  domain  when  you  get  there  is  small,  I 
own,  and  you  won't  be  too  comfortable,  but  there  are 
four  rooms,  so  we  shall  shake  down  somehowT,  and 
you  won't  mind  crowded  quarters  for  once,  will  you? 
It's  topping  country  and  I  still  have  a  lot  of  sardines. 
We  can  have  it  for  a  picnic ;  that's  a  word  that  covers 
a  multitude  of— I  was  going  to  say  fleas,  but  there 


CLAIK  DE  LUNE  351 

aren't  any  now.  It  took  me  three  months  to  get  rid 
of  them  but  I  did  it  in  the  end.  Unless  Meredith 
imported  any." 

"Are  you  seriously  under  the  impression  that  I'm 
coming  with  you  to  Evol  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Can't  you  see  George  counting  the  hours?  He 
simply  hates  your  being  left  to  fend  for  yourself  in  a 
French  pub.  I  left  a  note  for  him  in  the  Quaker  Oats 
tin.  Meredith  will  find  it  when  he  goes  to  make  the 
porridge.  It's  the  one  thing  he  can  do  in  the  cookery 
line  so  he  jolly  well  has  to  do  it.  Because  of  course 
shooting  rabbits  or  netting  trout  isn't  a  fair  equiva- 
lent for  washing  up  dishes  and  emptying  slops,  but 
he  is  so  very  unhandy,  we  had  to  let  him  off  lightly." 

"Are  you  quite  mad?"  Kitty  asked  helplessly. 

"I  expect  Meredith  is  a  lot  madder,"  said  Evelyn. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair  sipping  his  tea  and  chuck- 
ling softly  to  himself.  Kitty's  one  overpowering  sen- 
sation was  wonder.  She  felt  quite  dazed  and  could 
have  cried  with  bewilderment  and  distress.  But  Eve- 
lyn looked  up,  caught  her  eye,  and  smiled  at  her  with 
such  unmixed  devilry  that  she  found  herself  laugh- 
ing instead.  "I'm  fed  up  with  Meredith,"  he  ex- 
plained, lowering  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper. 
"He's  a  perfect  nuisance.  No  good  whatever  on  a 
desert  island.  You  know,  Kitty,  I  can  quite  under- 
stand your  wanting  to  run  away  with  some  one  else 
after  I  ran  away  from  you.  It  would  have  been  a 
quid  pro  quo — not  to  say  a  Tertium  Quid  pro  quo. 
But  it  does  defeat  me  why  you  should  pitch  on  Mere- 
dith. For  a  journey  of  adventure  one  needs  a  thor- 
oughly reliable  umbrella.  If  you  had  consulted  me  I 
could  have  recommended  you  half  a  dozen  better  men, 


352  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

a  choix.  There's  Dimmie  now :  why  not  try  Dimmie? 
He's  water-tight.  I'm  afraid  you  would  find  Meredith 
let  in  a  lot  of  rain." 

"Do  you  want  some  more  tea,"  said  Kitty :  "idiot?" 

"Two  cups  please.  First  one  and  then  the  other, 
not  hoth  together.  By  the  by,  there's  just  one  question 
Fm  going  to  ask  you,  and  it's  the  only  one  I  shall 
ever  ask :  did  you  give  Meredith  your  photograph?" 

"I  certainly  should  have  if  he  had  asked  me  for  one, 
but  he  never  did.  How  many  lumps  do  you  take 
now?" 

"Three.    Thank  you :  yes,  a  lot  of  rain." 

"Why?" 

Evelyn  shook  his  head.  "Don't  be  curious ;  curiosity 
is  a  failing  of  your  sex  from  which  you  used  to  be 
conspicuously  free.  And  talking  of  women  that's  a 
very  pretty  dress.  I've  always  been  so  grateful  to 
you  for  not  wearing  open  dresses  in  the  heat  of  the 
sun.  Consequently  you  can  afford  to  do  it  in  the  eve- 
ning. I  hate  a  red  V,  but  your  throat  is  as  white  as 
milk."  Kitty's  hand  was  trembling  as  she  gave  him 
his  cup;  she  could  not  control  it  though  she  knew  he 
was  watching  her.  "It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  an 
English  lady  except  you  and  Sophy,  and  Sophy  at  this 
moment — I  trust  you  won't  be  shocked! — is  wearing 
a  suit  of  my  own.  She  came  off  without  any  luggage, 
got  wet  through  the  night  of  the  storm,  and  has  been 
held  up  ever  since.  I  must  say  she  looks  awfully 
pretty  in  flannels.  I  can't  take  my  eyes  off  her,  and  I 
often  catch  Meredith  watching  her  too.  I  should  never 
be  surprised  if  Meredith  ended  by  marrying  her.  It's 
exactly  the  sort  of  thing  these  cautious,  cold-blooded 
chaps  do  drift  into  doing  at  forty  or  thereabouts; 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  353 

and  it  mightn't  turn  out  badly,  for  he's  a  kind-hearted 
fellow  so  long  as  he  gets  his  own  way,  and  Sophy 
would  ask  nothing  better  than  to  warm  his  slippers 
and  lick  his  boots.  That  reminds  me,  I  had  better 
extricate  one  of  her  trunks  from  Kia  and  we  can  take 
it  up  in  our  gig.  I  hope  it  won't  involve  assaulting 
the  chef  de  gare,  for  I  haven't  her  bulletin,  I  came 
off  in  such  a  hurry ;  but  luckily  he's  a  personal  friend 
of  mine  so  I  dare  say  I  can  square  him.  If  I  can't 
you  shall  go  and  smile  at  him  and  he  will  instantly 
succumb." 

"I  am  not  going  to  Evol  with  you!" 

"Oh,  you  couldn't  disappoint  George !  If  it  weren't 
for  that  I'd  rather  have  waited  another  day  or  two  my- 
self, for  the  road  is  most  awfully  rough,  but  it's  quite 
safe,  and  he's  bored  to  death,  poor  old  chap.  He  pines 
for  his  Telegraph.  I  hadn't  even  a  pack  of  Patience 
cards  to  keep  him  quiet.  We  might  get  some  in  the 
town.  And  there  are  one  or  two  other  things  I  should 
like,  to  make  him  more  comfortable;  only  there  won't 
be  much  room  in  the  cart — but  you  won't  want  to 
bring  more  than  a  suitcase,  will  you?  6vol  won't 
run  to  a  dressing  room:  so  you  can  share  my 
brushes." 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  said  Kitty.  She 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  gazed  at  him  from  head 
to  foot  as  if  he  were  strange  to  her.  And  so  in  fact 
he  seemed:  the  pert  Charles  Evelyn  who  sat  facing 
her,  his  teacup  precariously  balanced  on  his  knee, 
was  not  the  exhausted  man  whose  languid  courtesy 
had  cut  her  to  the  heart  in  Chelsea,  but  a  new,  an 
original  Charles  Evelyn,  with  more  than  his  share  of 
original  sin.  "What  have  you  done  to  yourself? 


354  CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

You're  so  changed  I  don't  know  you.,  I  feel  all  at 
sea." 

"Say  in  haven." 

"In  haven?"  Kitty  repeated  stupidly.  "What  haven? 
—Oh!"  She  began  to  blush.  "No,  Eve,  no— you 
mustn't  think  it's  only  to  ask  and  have.  You  know 
why  I  left  you,  though  I  never  told  George  or  Ed- 
mund. I  kept  your  secret.  But  you  know  it  was  for 
no  light  reason." 

"My  darling,  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea!" 

"Were  you  so  blind?  Yes,  I  see  you  were."  She 
stood  up  and  moved  away,  and  Evelyn  followed  her. 
At  one  end  of  the  patio  there  was  a  mossy  tank  fringed 
with  ferns,  among  which  a  fountain  danced  ceaselessly 
like  a  thin  silver  nymph  in  a  bath  of  stone;  and  round 
it  the  lauriers  roses  with  their  shiny  dark  leaves  and 
pink  paper  flowers  had  grown  into  a  dense  thicket, 
while  overhead  the  spire  of  a  magnolia  sprang  up  into 
the  blue  evening  sky,  one  creamy  blossom  as  large  as 
a  waterlily  glowing  like  a  point  of  flame  in  the  slant 
of  an  accidental  sunray.  Here  in  the  protecting 
shadow  of  the  lauriers  roses,  her  voice,  always  low, 
overflowed  by  the  murmur  of  the  fountain,  Kitty 
turned  round  to  Evelyn. 

"I  left  you  because,  in  plain  English,  you  didn't 
want  me — you  shrank  from  me.  You  liked  me  and 
we  were  friends,  but  underneath  all  your  kindness 
and  courtesy  you  were  like  ice,  you  couldn't  bear  me 
near  you.  Perhaps  I  was  the  wrong  woman  for  you, 
but  I  don't  think  it  was  that,  or  not  only  that.  The 
incapacity  was  in  you,  not  in  me.  I  think  you  ought 
never  to  have  married.  Now  I've  hurt  you."  Evelyn 
was  very  pale. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  355 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Eve,"  Kitty  murmured.  "I  didn't 
want  to  hurt  you.  But  you  hurt  me,  and  now  you 
want  to  begin  all  over  again.  Oh !  how  you  made  me 
suffer !  I  don't  say  this  to  reproach  you,  because  it  was 
no  fault  of  yours ;  it  was  mine  for  ever  marrying  you, 
when  I  knew  you  didn't  love  me.  But  I  did — I  did 
suffer,  and  I  couldn't  endure  to  suffer  like  that  again. 
Oh !  that  night,  that  last  night  in  Chelsea,"  she  pressed 
her  hands  together  with  the  gesture  that  comes  nat- 
urally to  one  who  is  either  enduring  or  recalling  great 
pain,  "that's  not  one  of  the  experiences  that  can  be 
forgotten  in  a  minute,  directly  you  want  to  whistle 
me  back  to  heel.  You  made  me  feel  such  shame  then ; 
if  you  had  treated  me  as  men  treat  women  they  don't 
respect,  I  couldn't  have  felt  more  abased  and  rolled 
in  the  dust.  No,  it  was  nothing  overt,  nothing  done 
or  said!  you  were  always  deadly  polite:  I'd  rather 
have  been  beaten — " 

"Like  me." 

"Like—?" 

"George  gave  me  a  beating,"  Evelyn  explained. 
"We  had  a  fight  and  I  got  the  worst  of  it.  You're  not 
the  only  one  that's  been  rolled  in  the  dust.  Dearest, 
why  nurse  this  rankling  grudge?  I  don't.  I've  entirely 
forgiven  George,  and  I  think  he  knows  better  now :  he 
hasn't  apologised,  but  I  catch  him  eyeing  me  wistfully, 
as  if  it  worried  him  to  reflect  that  he  hasn't  always 
acted  up  to  the  ideal  of  the  feudal  retainer." 

"Are  you  serious?" 

"O  Lord  yes !  it  was  the  most  dramatic  incident  you 
ever  saw.  But  that's  all  past  and  done  with,  we're  the 
best  of  friends  again  now,  and  I  only  mention  it  to 
show  you  that  you  can't  have  all  the  tears  to  yourself. 


356  CLAIE  DE  LUNE 

I  suffered  too,  like  the  cook  in  Candide.  But  why 
harp  on  bygone  sorrows?  They  give  me  no  pleasure. 
It's  the  future  I'm  interested  in.  What  should  you 
say  to  keeping  on  the  inn  at  6vol?  Then  when  England 
gets  too  much  for  me  (not  Chelsea — I  shall  never  live 
in  town  again.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?)  I  could  slip 
across  and  take  a  rest  cure.  It's  an  ideal  spot  for 
making  music.  I've  rewritten  three  quarters  of  Clair 
de  Lune,  by  the  by,  since  I've  been  there,  and  it  ought 
to  be  finished  before  the  autumn.  It's  quite  good — 
much  better  than  when  you  heard  it  in  town.  But 
I  shall  be  glad  when  it's  done,  I  want  to  get  on  to 
new  work,  something  more  solid  and  intellectual, 
I've  got  the  hang  of  it  in  my  head,  and  if  there's  a 
decent  piano  here  I'll  play  you  some  of  the  themes/ 
after  dinner.  Unless  you  would  rather  wait  till  we 
get  to  fivol?  I've  got  a  full  concert  grand  up  there, 
a  ripping  instrument,  you'll  love  it." 
"I  am  not — I  am  not  coming  with  you  to  6vol !" 
"Yes,  you  are,"  said  Evelyn,  taking  her  in  his  arms. 
"You  are — you  are  coming  with  me  to  6vol."  He 
kissed  her.  "Kitty,  I've  been  a  devil  to  you.  I  know 
that :  I  knew  it  at  the  time,  only  I  couldn't  help  my- 
self. I  ought  not  to  have  married  you  then.  But 
I'm  going  to  marry  you  now,  and  you  must  forgive  me 
for  love's  own  sake  and  not  because  I  deserve  it.  I 
can't  even  say  I'm  sorry.  How  can  I,  when  I  don't 
even  now  understand  what  was  wrong?  What  on 
earth's  the  good  of  asking  what's  happened  to  me? 
How  should  I  know?  I  only  know  you're  safe  with  me 
and  I  shall  never  hurt  you — in  that  way — again.  In 
other  ways,  yes,  perhaps,  for  I'm  a  careless  ass  and 
for  my  life  I  can't  keep  accounts.  I  still  owe  Blanc 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE  357 

seven  hundred  francs  on  the  price  of  the  furniture. 
But  you  must  make  the  best  job  of  me  you  can.  You 
can't  give  me  the  chuck  at  this  time  of  day  when 
you've  belonged  to  me  ever  since  you  wore  a  bib.  Let 
you  go  to  Meredith?  I  will  see  Meredith  shot  first. 
I'm  a  better  man  than  Meredith.  Come,  you're  mine, 
aren't  you?"  Kitty  was  silent. 

Later  that  evening,  when  Meredith  had  faded  to 
a  shadow  in  Kitty's  half  compassionate,  half  scorn- 
ful remembrance,  she  felt  Evelyn  start  as  if  some 
thorn  of  memory  had  pricked  him,  and  subdue  a  sigh. 
"What's  the  matter?"  Kitty  asked,  touching  his  hand. 
Evelyn  drew  it  away.  "Eve,  what  is  it?"  said  his  wife, 
rallying  her  courage  to  bear  the  suffocating  throb  of 
her  heart,  while  all  the  anguish  of  her  early  married 
life  came  flooding  back  over  her  like  a  winter  sea. 
Did  he  shrink  from  her  still? 

"It  isn't  clean." 

Kitty  arched  her  eyebrows.  "I  should  recommend 
washing  it.  That  is  a  trouble  that  doesn't  seem  worth 
sighing  over.  I  can  lend  you  some  soap  if  you  haven't 
any." 

"It  won't  come  clean  with  soap." 

"My  poor  child,  what  is  wrong?" 

"I  told  you." 

This  time  light  dawned  and  Kitty  laughed — a  little 
tender  laugh,  veiling  infinite  relief  and  happiness 
under  mockery.  "Are  you  fretting  over  that  unfor- 
tunate moth?  It  would  have  died  soon  anyway; 
moths  never  live  very  long." 

"Kitty,  you  mean  to  be  consoling,  I  know,  but  the 
form  of  consolation  isn't  worthy  of  you.  If  it  comes 


358  CLAIB  DE  LUNE 

to  that,  what  are  we  all  but  moths?  and  we  none  of 
us  live  very  long.  Yet  we  go  on  hoping  that  no  hand 
may  shut  on  us  and  crush  us.  ...  No,  it  was  cruel : 
and  I  hate  cruelty." 

"Was  it  cruel?"  Kitty  said,  reluctantly  conceding 
his  point.  "Perhaps."  She  drew  him  to  her.  "But  he 
comforted :  you  never  will  do  it  again." 

"And  after  all  it's  the  way  I  should  like  to  die  my- 
self," he  raised  his  face  to  feel  the  night  wind  cool  on 
it  and  to  listen  to  the  nightingales  in  the  patio  and 
the  sharp  cry  of  a  hunting  bat:  "one  moment  your 
aims  and  all  this  world  of  music,  and  after  that  the 
dark." 


THE  END 


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il  71 

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LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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